


Sherlock Holmes and the Wild Man of Avebury Henge

by TheBananasaurus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Demisexual John, Demisexual Sherlock, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder Mystery, Mystery, POV John Watson, PTSD John, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Violence, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 34,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6716197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBananasaurus/pseuds/TheBananasaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/>John has struggled with the strangely strong attachment and instantly formed chemistry he's had with Sherlock from the moment he shot that bloody cabbie. Now, shortly after the case in Baskerville, he and Sherlock are thrown into a new case revolving around a madman the locals of Avebury claim is a feral, wild creature with no sense of humanity. As the mystery unravels, so too does John's resolve.</p><p>[<i><b>Author's Note:</b> Originally posted on TheBananasaurus.tumblr.com and PenFlourish.tumblr.com in 2014, in first person, from the POV of John, as the original Sherlock stories went. I found writing this particular story in first person to be clumsy and awkward, so I began the process of re-writing everything thus far in third person. Keep checking back every week for updates, loves. <3</i>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flash-forward

**From the Diary of Dr. John H. Watson**

_April 19th, 2012. 3:46 a.m. The town of Avebury, England._

John stood over Sherlock Holmes as he meticulously studied two family pictures and a child’s drawing. He sat at a low-chaired desk, much like a school child’s, his knees sticking out at awkward angles to accommodate his height. The army doctor tilted his head and tried to make sense of the gibberish he was scribbling on a paper on the desk, but the endeavor was hopeless. 

This was the second night Sherlock had gone without sleep. He’d had a half cup of tea and a single bite of a biscuit to eat yesterday, but nothing since. Sherlock refused to sleep or eat, despite his mortal needs, until he’d made some sort of break-through on the case. John was growing increasingly worried for his well-being, but said nothing. Why would he? He’d get no response, anyway. Thus, he continued hovering over his friend, hands clasped behind his back, and waited. 

Quite suddenly, Sherlock’s head drooped to the desk, and he was still. A soft, measured breathing replaced the near-feverish panting from minutes before. He was asleep. Feeling a sudden upwelling of primal protectiveness, John knelt down beside him on his good knee and placed his hand on his opposite shoulder. 

Taking stock of his surroundings, the older man peered about the cluttered crime scene to be certain no one would see what he was about to do. Satisfied they were alone, He lay his cheek against the detective’s back, closed his eyes, and with a faint smile allowed himself to be lost in blissful fantasy. 

**“I _KNEW_ it!”**

Cold, terrible dread pitted his stomach as his eyes popped open. That voice was unmistakably Detective Inspector Lestrade’s. How had John not heard him coming? Had he dozed off? 

**“No, I - …Shit,”** John whispered tersely as he pulled away from the slumbering Sherlock.

**“I _knew_  it! You two _ARE_ ga-“**

**“Stop. He… He can’t know,”** John said as calmly as he could past the lump forming in his throat. Here he was, a grown man, beholder of war crimes and the worst horrors a human could witness, and he was on the verge of tears. Dad would be so _very_ proud. With a soft grunt, he pushed off of the ground and set his eyes on Greg and his gaping mouth. The confusion radiating off of him was palpable.

**“But you two are… you know…”** The detective inspector mimed pounding his fists together, obviously uncomfortable with the prospect that he was illustrating.

**“N-no,"** said the doctor, swallowing. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, He saw that his friend seemed to be asleep still, though the black curls that had tumbled over his face might very well be concealing open eyes. When he looked back at Lestrade, the bloke was opening and closing his mouth as he struggled for something to say. He appeared to be having a difficult time of this.

**“He can’t know how much I…”**

John paused, inhaling a shuddering breath, then continued. 

**“How much I care for him. He’s not like me, I think. He won’t feel the same… He hardly even feels at all.”** A fiery mixture of determination and desperation bubbled up, and his gaze hardened. 

**“You won’t tell him, will you?”**

Greg glanced away from him and struggled for words. **“Um… err…”**


	2. A Marvelous Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [ _ **Author's note:** The plot thickens! Yes, this isn't just a fluffy smut fic, my dears! Do excuse my shit "science". I promise I get better as I write._ ]

_ April 16th, 2012, Approximately 3:30 p.m. Avebury Henge, England. _

 

 Delighted peals of laughter cascaded over a windswept field as a small girl of no more than eight ran at full clip  around a megalithic boulder, one arm outstretched towards the stone as if to catch herself in case of a stumble. She  shared her joy with no playmate, but didn't seem to mind the lack of company - Indeed, she seemed to revel in it.  The girl’s chestnut hair streamed behind her in tangled curls, her lightly freckled cheeks flushed and shining with  sweat despite the moderate temperatures.

**“Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven…!”** shrieked the girl gleefully, announcing each full circle.

 Several meters away, hidden in a stand of tall heather, two blue eyes, the left speckled with green, watched the girl’s  movements closely.

**“Eighty-eight, eighty-nine…”**

 Without provocation, a man leapt forward from the brush and galloped toward the girl on all fours, baying like a  hound on the trail of a fox. The girl froze mid-step and whirled around to face the charging man, her eyes  widening. The banshee’s scream she loosed could be heard echoing across the fields, and about the entire town.

 

* * *

 

_ April 17th, 7:40 AM, London, England (221B Baker Street) _

John had been up for hours, having been awoken from a fitful slumber by one of his patented nightmares. He’d eaten his share of a breakfast of eggs and beans on toast (now cold), and left the rest for Sherlock. Sipping his second cup of coffee from a mug Harry’d gotten him for Boxing Day, he scanned the internet for cases for Sherlock, laptop balanced on his knees. So far he’d come across a few minorly interesting cases, but his opinion usually (if not always) differed from Sherlock’s. Best mates they may be, but sometimes he wondered if he’d come from another planet. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least, considering the self-proclaimed ‘genius’s staggering ignorance of the Earth’s most commonly known properties.

A faint shuffling about in Sherlock’s room announced his consciousness, giving John pause for a moment to listen. When he heard the other man begin his highly particular morning grooming routine, he smiled and continued perusing the news. When _he_ woke up, all he needed was a quick comb, a shave, and teeth brushing. Sherlock, however, wouldn’t leave his room until he’d brushed, combed, flossed every crevice, rinsed for five minutes, shaved twice, and plucked any offending hairs. When he finally emerged, however, a glance through his peripheral vision told him he wasn’t wearing his clothes - only that bloody blue sheet. He stepped forward and leaned over his shoulder, careful to clutch the sheet tightly so it didn’t fall open. _John_ was careful not to turn his head in the slightest. 

**“I’d call you metrosexual, but I think that might be an insult to those poor chaps,”** he chuckled with a smarmy smile.

**“Humour isn’t your strongest skill-set, John. Have you found anything?”** His breath was warm on the doctor’s neck. He felt his ears burn slightly and was glad the detective wasn’t paying attention to him. 

**“Actually, yes. Here, take a look at these three I f-“**

**“The mother’s in Sweden, a dog-fighting ring, and a murder-suicide for life insurance,”** he sighed dismissively, standing and turning on his heel toward the leftover food.

John put his mug down on the end table beside his recliner and craned his neck around to look at his friend dubiously.

**“How in the world -- no, never mind. I’ll inform the constable later of your results.”**

**“Must the world be so dull?”** Sherlock grumbled as he sat at the table heavily, making the chair scrape noisily on the tile. Watson winced at the grating sound, then sighed and rose, taking the computer to his friend. He hadn’t yet reached for a bite of breakfast, so John set the laptop in front of him with the case he’d found most curious. The headline read “WILD MAN ATTACKS GIRL AT AVEBURY HENGE, LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT BAFFLED.”

While he read, the older man planted his fists on his hips and watched Sherlock’s face turn from one of utter apathy, to mild curiosity, to childish glee. The detective’s eyes widened and seemed to dance with unplacable light as a hand emerged from his sheet to point emphatically at the wild man’s portrait. He was young, with long, disheveled blond hair hanging around his face, and a savage gleam to his eyes.

**“John, this is fantastic!”** exclaimed Sherlock, glancing up at him before refocusing on the screen. He began muttering to himself in a hushed, fevered whisper. John caught a few snippets here and there.

**“Near nineteen, partially heterocrhomatic in the left eye...”**

**“Mentally deficient...**

**“...Most likely a product of severe childhood neglect, yet with no evidence of abuse...”**

He continued on like this for some time, then abruptly fell silent. John knew better than to interrupt his thinking process, so like the good little sidekick he patiently waited for him to issue orders. After several minutes, however, he began to suspect the detective had entered one of his near-catatonic states and wondered if he should start cleaning up the kitchen. In the time it could take for the younger man to sort through his ‘Mind Palace’, John could head out, maybe get some work done at the clinic, buy some groceries, maybe take a walk around-

**“Hah! Marvelous!"** Sherlock crowed suddenly, jolting John from his own thoughts.

**“What? What’s marvelous?”**

**“This case, of course,”** he said matter-of-factly. John struggled with the all-too familiar of being patronized and pressed his lips together with an expectant elevation of his eyebrows.

He’d been somewhat expecting a reaction like this, but it pleased him nonetheless that he’d found a proper mystery for Sherlock. His deductions about the tow-headed lad ranged from the clearly apparent to the fantastic. John retrieved his mug, then came back to the table and pulled out the chair next to him. Sitting down and leaning forward on his elbows, he clutched the tepid coffee with both hands.

** “I get the age and the eye speckles, but how can you tell he’s healthy, wasn’t beaten or molested, or... how he went mad? How do you know he wasn’t just born with brain damage? The picture only shows him from the neck up, how do you know the scars aren’t ‘round on his wrists or abdomen?”**

Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair, apparently having finished reading all that he needed despite not having scrolled down past the first four sentences, and stalked to his bedroom to dress.

**“His cheeks are not hollowed out,”** Sherlock began, and John could tell he was not pleased with having to rattle off an explanation by the distracted monotone he spoke in. **“-- And his skin, though it may seem to have a pallor to it, still retains a good amount of colour - this tells me the blood flow to his face and other extremities has been maintained for some time without being diverted to major organs. You’re a doctor, John - what does blood diversion mean?”** he called, tone edgy and impatient, over the sound of drawers hurriedly being opened and closed.

The army doctor leaned over to inspect the picture with a squint, then glanced over at Sherlock’s room.

**“Injury, sickness, or other bodily ills cause prolonged blood diversion…”** John said just loudly enough for him to hear, not even attempting to keep the awe-struck note from the sentence.

Sherlock poked his head out of the room and grinned like a proud parent. John couldn’t help but feel slightly patronized again, but pleased with himself nonetheless. **“Precisely! Clearly he's had someone caring for him, for the most part, as he's obviously mentally incapable of caring for himself so well.”**

He disappeared back behind the door, and John heard him retrieve his boots from his closet.  **“Now, those with experience of physical and sexual abuse have several particular ways of ‘dealing with it’, per se.”**

**“Mhm,”** John nodded, following so far. He didn’t know what those ‘particular ways’ were, but he supposed Sherlock’d tell him. The only time he told him _anything_ was when he was on one of these rants. To be perfectly truthful to himself, John knew he wasn’t actually speaking to _him_ , but merely voicing his thoughts aloud. It helped Sherlock think, and John knew well enough that he preferred someone to speak to that did not speak back.

**“One way is to bottle it up, which of course eventually leads to tension of the body and facial muscles and advanced aging. The boy doesn’t have any of that.”**

Again John looked at the picture with new eyes. Although the man was snarling fiercely, he didn’t seem to have any underlying tension in the knit brows and half-open mouth. Sherlock’s door opened abruptly and he stalked out, breezing past his flatmate to snatch up his coat and swing it over his shoulders whilst still explaining.

**“Another way is to indulge in self-pity, wallow in it until paranoia sets in. Does that face say ‘I’m vulnerable’ to you?”**

John shook his head despite being fully aware he’d posed a rhetorical question and closed the laptop. Sherlock flicked his collar up and turned to face the doctor, raising a brow.

**“Do hurry up, John. I’d like to get there before those imbecilic police muss up his crime scene.”**

**“Oh, right. So we’re off to Avebury, then?”** he chirped.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. **“Obviously. Now do you want me to explain the answers to the rest of your overwhelmingly dull questions, or not?”**

John smiled.  **“Of course. I’ll drive.”** As if there were any doubt to that. John was practically his chauffeur.

 


	3. The Hampshires & Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ April 17th, 10:00 AM, the town of Avebury, England (The Hampshire's Home) _

 

They arrived with little delay, though they’d taken a few wrong turns that Sherlock had broken his silence to insult John’s intelligence for. A heavy cloud cover had settled in, but the wind was pleasant and crisp compared to the heavy city air in London. All in all, perfect weather to do a bit of sleuthing. John was wary, however, as this case would involve children - not the type of people Sherlock  was adept at communicating with. Then again, when he wasn’t trying to squeeze information from someone, he wasn’t adept at communication with  _ any _ sort of person - John included.

The doctor exited the driver side far too slowly for Sherlock, apparently, because by the time John had both boots on the gravel path, the detective had already reached the door and was rapping impatiently on it. Whilst John bolted the car and hurried to join him, he briefly took stock of their surroundings. The house was an old one - wide and flat with an old thatched roof. It appeared to have been whitewashed recently- the bricks were still bright despite it being overcast. The gravel path was lined with colorful lilies, and the door was rather narrow and short. John buried his chin into his chest to stifle a laugh as he realized Sherlock would have to stoop to enter it. 

By the time the shorter-legged man got there, Sherlock’s knocks had doubled in volume. John sighed and laid a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

**“Sherlock,”** John whispered tersely. He didn’t turn to look at him, but John continued nonetheless. **“Their daughter was just chased around by a naked mad man - they’re probably a bit on edge.”**

He scowled for a moment as if he were about to reply, but just then the pair heard the bolt turn and the door opened just a sliver. Cautiously curious blue eyes looked us over carefully, then the door closed, a chain lock was removed, and it was re-opened. A stout man with mousy brown hair beckoned us inside, an offer which Sherlock took without question. 

**“I heard you’d be coming. It’s a pleasure to meet your Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.”**

**“ _Charmed_ ,” ** Sherlock said, not sounding it at all. He was already scanning the room, running his fingers along the mantle, and generally invading the family’s privacy.  **“Where’s the girl?”**

**“Sherlock...”** John warned.

**“No, it’s alright,”** chuckled the man whom John took to be the victim's father.  **“I’ve read your blog, Dr. Watson.”** He winked at him, and John couldn’t help but think he meant something else entirely other than being expectant of Sherlock’s behavior. The mousy-haired man craned his neck around and pointed down a short hallway.  **“She’s in ‘er room with ‘er mum.”** Sherlock stalked to the back of the house quickly... John knew he had to follow suit sooner rather than later, or Sherlock might very well get them both served with a restraining order.

Briefly John marveled at the father’s surprising joviality in light of the recent trauma, but tried not to let it show on his face. instead, the doctor smiled warmly and offered his hand, which was grasped and shook once before disengaging.

**“So,”** John said, crossing his arms over his chest while letting his eyes wander about the neatly appointed room.  **“Mr. Hampshire, where were you when she - your daughter - was attacked?”**

A drawn and weary look stole the life from the portly man’s face. He dragged a hand across it and drew a heavy sigh. “ **Like I told the police; Lucy an’ I were watching the telly like always. Abby’s keen on exploring on her own. She adores that bloody Devil’s Chair, thinks it a castle or sommat.”**

John’s gaze centered back on the man. **“Devil’s Chair...?”** he pressed with a raised brow.

Mr. Hampshire shook his head and chuckled, suddenly appearing decades older.  **“One o’ them ah… whachacallits -- megaliths that make up Avebury Stone Circle. Every one of ‘em has a name and some barmy story. That one in partic’lar is said t-”**

**“What** **_else?!_ ** **Surely, that isn’t it! You** **_must_ ** **remember** **_something MORE!_ ** **”**

John rolled his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh of  **_'Shit,'_** then trotted past the surprised father to the girl’s room. When he pushed open the door, he found Sherlock, hands curled into fists, towering over  Lucille as Abby buried herself into her bosom. The girl was in tears, and the mother, though visibly frightened, was also livid. She pointed to the door with a trembling finger.

**“Out! I want you** **_out_ ** **of this house, you monster!”**

Sherlock wheeled around to face John and gestured to the pair.  **“The idiotic child doesn’t have a speck of useful information! It’s all nonsense! Nonsense, John!”**

**“Sherlock, be reasonable!”** John begged futily as he grabbed his friend by the shoulder and attempted to steer him from the room. 

**“Why?!** **_She_ ** **isn’t!”** roared Sherlock, though he followed John’s direction easily enough. Once they were out of the house and the detective was storming towards the car, muttering to himself, John turned and began spouting apologies to the family. They would hear none of it.

**“Out!** **_Out!"_**  shrieked the woman shrilly, still clutching her daughter as they stood in the doorjam.

John looked to the father, whose face had turned purple, and began to implore him for understanding. Instead, Mr. Hampshire snorted and slammed the door in his face.

The older of the sleuthing pair blew a short breath past his lips and stood there for a few seconds to gain control over his anger. Once he felt good and ready to deal with a grown man throwing a temper tantrum, John went back to the car and got in. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was now stone silent and staring out the window with his back turned. John knew he wasn’t going to speak for several hours at least. This would be a  _ lovely _ ride home.

**“Well,”** John sighed, turning the key in the ignition. **“** ** _That_** **went brilliantly.”**

Sherlock grunted, but said nothing. John rolled his eyes and turned the car towards the road. _Fine, then._


	4. Grasping Concepts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _April 17th, 3:50 PM, London, England_

 

As expected, the entire drive had been dead silent save for one moment when John’d turned on the radio. Sherlock had immediately jabbed the dial off, muttering **“Thinking, John,”** before submerging himself back into the depths of his mind.

When they arrived back at the flat, the quarrelsome pair went their separate ways - the boffin to the couch to... do whatever it was that he did while staring at the wall, and John to his laptop. Despite Lestrade’s insistence that his boys had already sought out information on who this ‘Wild Man’ could be, John was not satisfied. As Sherlock sat across from him, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and fingers pressed together in front of his face, John began delving into the public records.

It took several hours to sift through the missing people section in the Avebury area, and even then John came up with nothing. He squinted at the screen, fighting the burning sensation that always cropped up whenever he tortured himself like this, and expanded the search another ten years.

The man was in the midst of scrolling through the _sixty-fourth_ page of grainy photographs when a spasm twinged his shoulder. Sighing wearily, John decided that it was time for a break. He leaned back in the armchair and lowered the laptop lid to give his eyes a rest. Sherlock had not moved a millimeter since he’d last checked on him; he still had his eyes locked unseeingly forward, narrowed and glassy with concentration.

**“You should probably blink, you know,”** John chuckled, knowing full well he’d not get a response.

After looking him over for a moment, Watson shook his head and placed the computer on the side table before rising to fix himself a late lunch. Nothing too complicated - jam sandwich with crisps and a cup of coffee. He even made an extra cup for Sherlock and stirred in two sugars before placing it in front of him on the coffee table, just in case, but of course, the silent fellow didn’t budge to reach for it.

As usual, John ate in silence, chewing slowly as he allowed himself to slip into the privacy of his mind. He’d only been living with Sherlock since late January, but in that short time they’d become so a part of each other’s lives that John found it hard to imagine them separate. As individuals, instead of a duo. They’d become best mates basically the night John killed that nutter of a cabbie, at least from _his_ point of view.

The doctor swallowed the last of the sandwich and peered over at Sherlock idly. Not for the first time, John wondered at his own thoughts on the subject as he scanned his motionless features. The H.O.U.N.D. case had been an important one, if only to prove that despite drugging him, repeatedly putting his life in danger, and generally being a prick, the detective _did_ care enough about him to call him his only true friend. It had felt rather nice, obviously, but also a bit sad. What did he think about Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson? She was the only person he’d let hug him... not that there were people _beating down the door_ for that opportunity, but still. Surely he felt... _something_ for her? He had, after all, thrown a man from a window _several_ times after he’d roughed the old bird up.

The mental tangent he’d started on was cut short when Sherlock abruptly rose from the couch. **“I’m going to the Stone Circle,”** he stated, stalking to his room without looking at John. John tossed the remains of his lunch in the rubbish, poured out Sherlock’s untouched coffee, and went to see what he was up to.

He was packing. Sherlock was folding several days’ worth of clothes into a rolling suitcase.

** “Er... what are you doing?” **

He answered him without turning. **“Packing, John,”** he replied shortly, annoyance creeping into his voice. **“Even you should be capable of grasping this concept.”**

**“Even me? Wha - ugh. Right, nevermind,”** John waved him off and turned around, not letting himself get riled up by the apparently still very grumpy ‘genius.’ John went back to his chair and opened up his laptop, intent on continuing his research. **“So, how long will you be gone?”**

**“Not sure,”** answered Sherlock over a zipping noise. John heard him step from the room, pulling his suitcase behind him, and then there was silence. The doctor stopped tapping at the keys and twisted around in his seat to look at him. One of his dark brows was raised questioningly, as if he were waiting on something to happen.

**“Why haven’t you packed?”** he asked, genuine confusion appearing.

John squinted and tilted his head. **“Oh, so I’m going too, then? Sorry, I suppose that was one of those concepts I struggle to grasp.”** He knew was being a bit of a tit, but he _also_ did not care. He supposed this was his way of getting back at the younger man for earlier.

**“Rather passive-aggressive of you, don’t you think?”** Sherlock retorted, lowering his eyelids halfway in a felinesque expression of disdain.

John opened his mouth to say something, but foundered for a moment before finally replying. **“You’re judging** **_me?!_** **After what you just did to that poor family,** **_YOU_ ** **are lecturing** **_ME_ ** **on proper behavior?”**

Sherlock merely stared at him, unblinking. Had he nothing smart to say to defend himself? Nothing at all? For some reason the lack of a quip from him aroused John’s anger further. He exhaled forcefully, clamped the laptop shut, and went to pack his things, fuming all the way. _Tosser._


	5. Arrival at the B&B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [ _ **Author's Note** : Sorry it's so short, lovelies! That's why I made sure to post two chapters this time!_]

_April 17th, 5:00 PM, Avebury, England (The B &B)_

 

Sherlock had insisted they rent a room at a bed-and-breakfast in Avebury to be closer to the crime scene. John had done all the talking and money transferring (again), all the while Sherlock was utterly silent. John kept up appearances, forcing smiles and shaking hands, but on the inside he was _fuming_.

Really, he just wanted to throttle the bastard. But why _was_ he so angry? Usually the war veteran was quite able to tamp down on the aggravation Sherlock caused him, but now... it was all he could to do not to let it consume him. Thankfully the innkeeper here wasn’t like the one in Baskerville - he didn’t suggest a single-bed room or wink in that annoyingly knowing way. He just ran John’s card and called in another man to help him with their bags, blessedly keeping his opinions and speculations to himself.

The B&B hadn’t had any double rooms left, but thankfully they’d at least have their own beds. _Small miracles_ , and all that. After they checked in and were showed to their upstairs room, Sherlock unpacked in a rabid hurry, neatly organizing his clothes in the available drawers despite them only booking the room for two nights. John left his things in his bag and sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, eyes following the flurry of movement.

**“You know,** ” John chuckled, forcing himself to see the humour in the feverish mannerisms despite his strangely lingering aggravation. **“One of these days you’re going to kill yourself, if you keep this up.”**

Sherlock ‘ _hmph_ ’ed in reply. John shook his head and smiled, taking in a chest-expanding breath. How the boffin stayed healthy when he went days without sleep, barely ate, and rushed around like a man-man, was beyond the doctor. Good genes, maybe? Even Mycroft, despite his weight, seemed to be in alright shape. John had to admit, he was a bit envious. He’d outlive him by a decade at least, especially considering his age.

The thought of death, and leaving Sherlock alone in this dreadfully boring world elicited a drawn-out, if silent sigh from him. Well, he wasn’t _angry_ anymore, at least. After only a couple of minutes, Sherlock turned on his heel and regarded the pensive man with an expectant expression, one brow raised.

**“Oh, I’ll unpack later. Shall we?”** chirped John, tugging a somewhat forced smile onto his lips.

Most people would have wanted a bit to get settled, maybe take stock of the rest of the bed and breakfast. Not Sherlock; John knew he wanted to get back to the crime scene straight away. “Time wasted was information lost”, he’d once told him. Sherlock pocketed some empty vials he’d brought as and nodded sharply as John shoved away from his bed to follow the detective down to the street.


	6. Preliminary Investigations at the Henge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _April 17th, 6:10 PM, Avebury, England (The Circle/Avebury Henge)_

 

  
A local pointed them in the direction of the Devil’s Chair, and they walked briskly around the Avebury Henge (with John having to take two steps for every one of Sherlock’s fevered strides, but still managing, as always, to keep up nicely) until we came across it. As Sherlock went about inspecting every crevice, every blade of trampled grass, bending over and tilting his head this way and that, John took it upon myself to do a bit of exploring.

It was a busy day in the Circle; they’d been told a few groups of pagans, one of whom called themselves the ‘Druids of the Mother’ were holding a gathering. Upon arrival, a couple of them had waved at the pair genially and then went back to their worship. Others had broken off to look on at the crime scene curiously, but a bobby stopped them from approaching further. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and went up to the nearest bloke: a lanky man with balding ginger hair. He nodded at the much shorter Watson with a grim expression in greeting, so John smiled in return to try to break the ice.

**“So,”** John exhaled, turning about to watch Sherlock even as he chatted him this fellow. **“What’s all this about a legend, then? Demon’s Chair, was it?”**

He was playing the dull tourist despite his obvious affiliation with Sherlock and, thus, the authorities. It seemed to work, however, because the ginger man released a breathy chuckle.

**“** ** _Devil’s_ ** **Chair. They say if you walk ‘round it anti-clockwise one-hundred times that you get magic powers,”** supplied the man in a dull voice that belied his disbelief in the legends. **“Some say thirteen times will summon the Devil ‘imself.”**

John whistled lowly. **“That’s quite a tale. So is that why you lot are out here, then? Summoning the Devil?”**

The well-meaning doctor’s joke seemed to backfire _fantastically_ , because the bloke turned on him and crossed his arms.

**“I should think** **_not,_ ** **sir. We Druids of the Mother do not worship some sinister** **_Judeo-Christian_ ** **deity. We are connected to the natural order, to the Earth Mother herself.”**

John blinked and pulled a sheepish grin onto his features. **“Sorry mate, didn’t mean to offend you. Call me an ignorant twat, but what are you - the Druids of the Mother - what are you doing here?”**

The man ‘hurumph’ed but seemed to be placated, letting his arms drop to the side and adopting the tone of a practiced educator.

**“This place, it is said, was sacred to ancient people. Before the local priests started** **_demonizing_ ** **‘pagan’ religions, people gathered here for festivals -- for the solstices. They were much more in tune to nature than modern man is. We’re just trying to get back to basics, commune with the spirits, become part of the natural rhythms of life.”**

**“Ah,”** John replied simply, crossing his own arms over his chest and rocking on his heels. He was glad Sherlock wasn’t listening, because he _surely_ would have mocked this poor chap and his beliefs to high-Heaven.

_High-Heaven. Heh._

A pregnant pause followed during John’s internal chuckle before, at length, the fellow piped up again. **“So what is he looking for, anyway?”** The other onlookers glanced to him as if they’d all been thinking the same thing.

**“Oh, Sherlock? Clues, I guess. Honestly, I never know what they are -- how he sees them until he points them out. I’m just as lost as you are.”**

**“** ** _Huh..._ ** **,”** breathed the man, looking back at Sherlock. The world’s only consulting detective was circling the massive monolith when, quite suddenly, he stood upright and glanced toward his companion, brow and lips tensed with determined concentration. They made eye contact and John nodded, taking that to mean he required (or at least desired) his assistance.

**“ ‘Scuse me,”** John murmured, stepping over to pull up the police tape and duck underneath. He came beside him and spoke low, such that even those leaning in, straining to catch a word, would be hard-pressed to glean anything.. **“What’d you find?”**

**“Frustratingly little,”** sighed Sherlock. He tilted his head toward the druids. **“I assume you spoke with some of them?”**

**“Yeh, Druids of the Mother. They said the people here think the Devil’s Chair here summons magic powers, the Devil, the usual superstitious rubbish,”** John shrugged.

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose a notch. **“And they believe this?”**

John shook his head and jammed his hands back in his pockets. **“Oh, no. They’re more into Mother Earth and nature and what-not.”**

The brunette turned and started making his way to a small copse of trees several metres away. **“That’s hardly better,”** he muttered.

The doctor smirked and followed after his friend. **“Your tolerance of others’ beliefs is** **_astounding_ ** **.”** The detective didn’t have a retort, though John suspected that it wasn’t for a lack of possessing one; It was simply because he didn’t _care_. Still, John took it as a small victory and chuckled to himself.

They left the taped-off area and trudged into the thicket, no doubt under the curious stares of the onlookers. It used to bother the once very private, button-lipped veteran, being so high-profile when with Sherlock, but he’d taken a page from his book and started pointedly ignoring them as if they were scenery. By now John was just barely aware of their presence as soon as they were out of his peripheral vision. Sherlock was able to do it even when staring _point blank_ at people. That unnerving see-right-through you stare of his was enough to have even the hardest of criminals cowering.

Sherlock parted the waist-high grass and quickly scanned the secluded thicket, his brows furrowing together. John took his hands from his trousers and clasped them behind his back as he peered at the ground briefly, seeing nothing, then back up at Sherlock.

**“What do you see, John?”** mused the boffin. He sounded distractedly pensive while he continued squinting just slightly about the area, despite his curiosity into the patterns of his friend’s thinking.

**“Erm, d’you mean... what do I think happened here?”** John asked, taken aback by Sherlock’s interest in anything other than the case. His question was apparently rhetorically as the other man didn’t even nod in reply. John narrowed his gaze down at the grass, which appeared to be trampled down.   **“Someone was here for some time, maybe slept here,”** he proposed, before flicking his eyes to Sherlock.

The detective tilted his head to peer under a small shrub. **“Yes, but for how long?”** he pressed, like an instructor impatient for his pupil to understand a lesson. **“-- And why? What can you tell me about the person who slept here from... this?”** He motioned with a hand at a particular area, no different from the rest of the thicket to John.

The doctor stared dubiously at him. Why was he doing this? Why, now, did Sherlock care to teach him how he deduced things? He’d tried a few times before, but never had he spelled things out for John in such a manner. And though he seemed to think his deductions were as plain as day, why did John _still_ not see anything?

**“I dunno,  Sherlock,”** John sighed, shaking his head. **“Why don’t you tell me?”**

Sherlock craned his neck over his shoulder and quirked a brow at his companion. In that simple expression John could just _feel_ the disappointment emanating from him. He pressed his lips together in a deep frown and just stared right back at him. The younger man snorted and went back to investigating the bush, crouching onto the balls of his feet to point at the place he’d indicated.

**“That bare patch, there -- Why is there no vegetation growing there? Sunlight and water are in ample supply, yet it is lifeless. Why?”**

John shook his head, still clueless, and growing frustrated with how patronizing this felt.

**“Someone has been relieving themselves - repeatedly - in that same spot. Over the course of several weeks, the acidity and urea made it uninhabitable by grass,”** Sherlock finally explained, his voice returning to the droning monotone from before.

**“But I don’t smell anything,”** John argued, crouching beside him with a soft grunt and draping his arms over his knees. **“I would think the smell of urine would be overpowering if someone’s been pissing here for weeks.”**

**“You are** **_clearly_ ** **not familiar with the soil in this area,”** he retorted, laying his leather gloved hand on the spot and sifting about like a gold panner. **“The high chalk content is incredibly porous, absorbing most liquids quickly while the chemical properties help mask the odor. If I simply dig a little deeper, however...”**

As he explained, Sherlock dug a small furrow with his finger and immediately the air filled with the overwhelmingly pungent stench of urine.

**“** ** _Augh_** **, that’s horrid,”** John coughed, wrinkling his nose and covering his mouth with his hand. **“Cover it back up, Sherlock. You’ll have to burn those gloves.”**

**“Nonsense,”** scoffed Sherlock, plucking a vial from his pocket and scooping up a small bit of the soil.   **“I like these gloves.”**

John stood up then, if only to be away from the smell. **“What I don’t get is why the person didn’t piss further away, if they were sleeping here.”**

Sherlock tucked the soil sample into a plastic bag and placed it in his coat pocket, then peeled off his gloves, turning them inside out in the process, and pocketed them as well. **“Under the bush there,”** he began, indicating the bush he’d been peering beneath, **“-- There’s traces of animal hair, as if the person had been either hunting or scavenging wild animals for food. I’m certain this sample will affirm my theory that the person who has been living here is a post-pubescent male with severe vitamin deficiencies. Even animals separate their feeding area from where they relieve themselves - so the level of incompetency has gone far past that of the average drifter. If we use logical reasoning, this ‘Wild Man,’ who is mentally unsound, is the self-same individual. I doubt he’d have the presence of mind to outside of his habitual instinctivism to separate his sleeping area from where he relieved himself. ”**

He’d said it all so quickly John had to stare at him for a full three seconds before it all finally processed.

**“Erm... right,”** John murmured, as if it’d been obvious. He took his hand away from his face to wag his index finger indicatively. **“Hang on, though. You said -- back at the flat -- you said he’d been cared for. How can he have vitamin deficiencies if he’s had someone looking after him? And why would he need to ah... ‘hunt’?”** Hell, while the high-and-mighty genius was in such a mood to educate him on his ways, John might as well take full advantage of it.

Sherlock took another vial from his pocket, as well as a pair of tweezers (did he just carry those about with him?), and plucked something out of the soil with practised precision. **“I never said they were caring for him** **_well_ ** **,”** he clarified, emphasizing the last word a bit more than necessary. **“Just feeding him enough to keep him alive and calm.”**

**“Ah…”** Well, how very _generous_ of these mystery caregivers.

The detective continued. **“And here, near the center of the indentation -- fingernail clippings. Once I run a few tests I’m** **_also_ ** **quite certain I’ll find substantial saliva samples. He apparently dug this hole himself with his hands, then, when his nutrient-deprived nails began breaking, he chewed them off.”**

John squinted, pondering the implications of a man living like an animal just _metres_ from civilized society. How lonely he must have felt… Mad or no, that was a painfully solitary life.

**“It’s a wonder nothing happened sooner,** ” John mused, voice soft.

**“Indeed,”** replied Sherlock before finally rising. He must have stood up a tad too fast because even as John watched, he blinked several times, seemingly disoriented for a moment with a head-rush.

The shorter man took a step toward him and reached out to help, but stopped just short of touching him. **“You alright, Sherlock?”**

The detective cleared his throat and turned away from John to step out into the grass. **“Fine, thank you,”** he grumbled.

John scoffed as he quickly followed him. **“No you’re not. I’m a doctor, you idiot - I can tell when something’s off. When’s the last time you slept?”**

**“Irrelevant,”** shot back Sherlock tersely. He was stalking back towards the Devil’s Chair at an impressive clip, but John caught up to him and cupped his hand on his shoulder. The stubborn git stopped walking, surprisingly, but did not turn about to face his friend.

**“You may think you’re above humanity, Sherlock Holmes, but you are not above mortal needs.”**

The detective finally peered at him from over his shoulder. **“I surmise this will be an issue you won’t drop.”**

John let his hand fall from his shoulder with a smirk. **“Yeh, it is. You’ve seen the crime scene, I’m sure you can shut off your brain for just a few hours of sleep, maybe a tiny meal.”**

**“Sleep, yes, food, no. I’m able put off that annoying little necessity for quite a time, I assure you.”**

As they walked back to the car, Sherlock signaling he was done with the area, John silently marveled at the fact that he had actually _listened_ to him. First, he was trying to get him to understand his line of thought, now he wasn’t being nearly as impossible as usual. What... what was going on?


	7. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _April 17th, 8:30 PM, Avebury, England (The B &B) _

 

Once John was fairly certain Sherlock was actually asleep and not faking it to appease him, he stepped out for a late dinner at the local pub. It was a quaint place, but surprisingly bustling for a small town. Watching a bit of rugby on one of the TV sets hanging over the bar while munching on food that could make a horse feel heavy, the good doctor was able to push away the case and his own thoughts easily enough… for a time.

When he returned, his friend was still in the bed, in the same position... so either Sherlock was very committed to the act, or he was truly sleeping. Either way, he was getting some small amount of rest, meaning the older man could focus on expanding his search through the public records.

Thank **_God_ ** John had remembered to bring his internet cable, figuring correctly they’d not have Wi-Fi here. Otherwise, he might have been bored stiff - a fate, as Sherlock had frequently said, _‘is infinitely worse than death.’_ After he’d set up his laptop and gotten nice and comfortable, John opened the public database and resigned himself to several hours of fruitless clicking and endless scrolling through grainy school photos of missing children from the area. None of them, however, fit the Wild Man. Not a one.

Even expanding the search to the last twenty years brought up nothing. Looking in Scotland and the rest of the U.K. had the same result. His eyes were getting tired, and it was nearly midnight anyway, so he shut off the laptop and set it aside before padding barefoot to the washroom to clean up for bed.

Pyjamas donned, teeth brushed, and alarm set, John headed to bed, passing his friend’s slumbering form on the way. As he pulled back the starchy B&B sheets and sat down on the plush mattress, though, John just... didn’t feel sleepy. At all. He sighed, frustrated that, despite his body needing sleep, his brain refused to submit. His eyes flickered to Sherlock as he shifted to his side in his sleep, probably in reaction to the doctor making noises. Even in the darkness, John could make out the outline of his head resting on the pillow, his shoulders gently rising and falling with his breaths, his lanky legs almost reaching the very foot of the bed. He really had ridiculously long legs, didn’t he?

_Jesus Christ, John,_ he muttered mentally, shaking his head. _He’s your friend, stop staring at him._

John tore his gaze away and lay down, but his eyes refused to close. The soft ticking of the clock on the far wall matched up almost perfectly to the rhythm of his friend’s steady breathing. It was really very soothing, as a whole, or at least it should have been… If it weren’t for his anxiety, this would likely have been the perfect storm of relaxation.

His mind was starting to race; John could feel it coming on, the insomnia, the paranoid imaginings, the obsessing over the most trivial of matters. The memories of Sherlock’s odd behavior as of late, and his over-analysation of his own feelings... Or was it over-analysation? Maybe it was under-analysation? He’d been so concerned for the younger man’s health, his sleeping and eating habits, almost as if he were a child incapable of keeping up with his most basic human needs...

_Why_ **_do_ ** _I feel so responsible for him? When did I stop being his best mate and start being his mum?_

Was it that simple? Had he simply developed some sort of paternal relationship with Sherlock? That was… a weird thought. And yet…? He definitely fretted over his well-being more-so than he did his other friends... but maybe that was because Sherlock was so terrible at taking care of himself.

Or maybe that’s what John just keep telling _him_ self.

His head rolled to the side and he forced himself to try to see Sherlock's features in the shadows. John could almost imagine the refined arch of his cheek, the cupid’s bow shape to his lips, his graceful, swan-like neck...

_Christ._ Was... was he really that deep in denial that he couldn’t admit it to himself? He just had to put it to words.

_I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes. That’s it, then. Fuck._

He grimaced as his stomach twisted and he flicked his weary gaze back to the ceiling. It was the truth, wasn’t it? Even thinking it felt so _final_. Thinking it turned it from an abstract, uneasy feeling to… reality.

So what did that mean? Well, he was in love with a man, so clearly he’s gay. Or... something like that. John still fancied women, didn’t he? Of course he did. He hadn’t been faking his own sexual identity his whole life. He’d never even _questioned_ it before. Wasn’t that supposed to come first - that ‘questioning’ stage? Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of cliche experimental university romp before he just... admitted romantic attraction to another male?

**“Ugh,”** John grunted softly. Sleeping pills, where were those damn sleeping pills? He climbed out of bed and rummaged around in his bag until his hand found the bottle, then popped one in his mouth and swallowed it dry. After this, he got back under the blankets with his back turned to Sherlock and (somehow) fell asleep. This issue was better thought of when he was thinking rationally, and his night-time-insomnia-fits did not promote rational thinking in the _slightest_.

_Bloody-fuckin’-hell._


	8. Night Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

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> [ _ **Author's Note** : Trigger warning for a bit of explicit gore in this chapter!_]

_Approx. 13:00, Date Unknown, Several Kilometres Away from Civilisation, Afghanistan_

 

**_“You worry too much, Watson. The area was already scouted yesterday. The route’s secure, mate.”_ ** _The lop-sided, cocksure grin aimed at him from the younger soldier did little to settle his nerves._

_John squinted uneasily through the slit in the caravan’s tarp cut just for the purpose of keeping visual contact on their surroundings._ **_“I dunno,”_ ** _he sighed, just loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the engine and tyres moving over the unpaved road._ **_“Still think we should’ve brought someone on, just in case --”_ **

_He never got to finish his eerily prophetic fretting, as the transport rolled over an Improvised Explosive Device embedded just below the surface of the road. There was no loud ‘boom,’ nor immediate pain… There was only silence._

_Deafening, horrible silence, even as the whiteness blinding his vision receded to reveal  the havoc the explosion had wreaked._

_Blood… It was…_ ** _Everywhere_** _. In all his days in hospital and in the military, Captain Watson had never seen so_ _much blood, soaking into the sandy ground, painting the agony-contorted features of his comrades, spurting in a garish fountain from from their driver’s body… or what was_ ** _left_** _of the body._

_Twisted metal shrapnel had cleaved the man in two at the waist, spilling his glistening viscera out into the desert air. He was dead - there was nothing John could do. But the others… The others had to be alright. They had to…_

_As the army doctor grunted and rolled onto his belly, he saw that the remains of their caravan had also impaled the selfsame sergeant that had just been attempting to assuage his worries, straight through his left eye socket. Vibrant crimson bubbled from the gouged wound, but he was still alive. That’s what mattered._

_The young man was screaming at him. Something… Something about ‘around us’ or… maybe ‘surround us’? Either way, he needed to get up, he needed to protect the men --_

 ---

When John sputtered out a wordless sound and snapped his eyes open, he was back at the B&B in Avebury, one hand clutching at the quilt tangled about his sprawled form, the other clawed straight up into the air, uselessly reaching for the sergeant that had long since succumbed to his injuries.

Sergeant Nelson Ackley. He had only just turned 21…

But this wasn’t the first time John had had this dream, of course; in fact, he had it at least once or twice a week, at minimum, since the actual event had occurred. But… since Baskerville… Since watching Dr. Frankland blow himself up while trying to get away… it had plagued him all the more frequently. He should have guessed this night would be no different.

A halting breath forced its way from the veteran’s lungs as he flexed his fingers and shoved the blankets away from him. He was drenched in a pool of his own sweat, and his heart was pounding, as usual, so even if he _wanted_ to roll over and go back to bed, it’d be impossible.

Instead, John peered over at the clock across from him on the wall (7:33 a.m.) and resigned himself to a shit start to the day. In such a daze as he was, he didn’t think to look over at his companion as he rose and trudged off to the loo to shower and dress. He ran his hand over his face roughly in an attempt to wake up, but that hardly did anything.

He was never one for analysing dreams, thinking that sort of thing a crock, but… he had to admit the significance of dreaming the same thing over and over again. He’d lost a good friend that day - a man he’d considered a son, in a weird way. Nelson’s death wasn’t entirely his fault, but he certainly could have done some things different. He could have saved him, if he’d only thought quicker.

The hot water of the shower streaming into his face helped warm the physical chill penetrating his body, but… The icy dread within his mind remained, cold and devouring as ever. On that day, so long ago, he’d made himself a promise:

_I’m not losing another friend like that. Never again._

Not to cowardice, not to apathy, and definitely not to death. He couldn’t see himself living through another incident like that with his sanity intact. It just wouldn’t be possible. It’d shatter him. What would he do with himself if, God forbid, something should happen to Sherlock?

_No. I can’t. Think of som’in’ else. Sunshine and daisies from here on out, John._

 

* * *

 

  _April 18th, 7:45 AM, Avebury, England (The B &B)_

_ _

 John exited the bathroom but stood just beyond the threshhold, clean-shaven and fully dressed save for his shoes, wiping excess moisture from his face with one of the B&B’s fluffy white hand towels.

**“You were shouting,”** Sherlock said, not moving from his bed just a metre away. His hands were steepled, and he stared vacantly at the ceiling, expressionless. He’d yet to get up, apparently, as his torso was bare and his hair a tousled mess.

 For a moment, John didn’t register that the other man had spoken, nor what he’d said. He braced the butt of his palm against the wall outside the loo, then shook his head as the words finally hit his groggy brain.

**“…Sorry, what?”** mumbled John as he tossed the towel onto the floor beneath the sink.

**“Last night,”** his friend replied, voice soft and without intonation. **“You were shouting in your sleep.”**

 The doctor’s brows knitted together as he shoved himself away from the wall. Shouting in his sleep? That was hardly surprising, considering the nightmares. He felt a bit bad for it, though, even still. He’s a rubbish sleeping partner, through and through.

John padded in his socks to his bed and lowered himself onto the very edge with a soft sigh. **“...Did I disturb you?”**

Sherlock didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched oddly. John inhaled and blew out another, sharper breath, crossing his arms over his chest. The minutes ticked by, him staring at Sherlock, Sherlock staring at the ceiling, both of them completely still and silent. After what seemed like ages, the detective broke the silence.

**“I thought about waking you, John,”** murmured Sherlock so quietly John hardly heard him. His eyebrows flew up in astonishment; Sherlock Holmes, thinking about something so inconsequential as waking him from a nightmare to save him from the tortures of his own mind? Perish the thought!

**“Why didn’t you?”** John pressed tentatively. Had he said anything to interest him? What could possibly have slipped from that dream that would incite Sherlock to give a rat’s arse?

Finally, the boffin shifted from his position and lolled his head over to face his friend. Though his blank expression was an unreadable mask, there was something in his eyes that appeared... _off._ They skittered across the veteran’s face as if he were searching for an answer to some unvoiced question, and despite feeling like an insect under a microscope, John maintained eye contact and waited for a reply with his lips pressed firmly into a thin line. After several tense seconds, John nearly gave up, but at length, Sherlock popped his lips open to speak.

**“It wasn’t your fau-“** he began, before being cut off by a shrill ring from the bedside table.

John’s eyes flew to the buzzing mobile that was there and was able to make out a name on the caller identification -- _D.I. Lestrade_ \-- before Sherlock snatched up the phone and answered it, still keeping his own eyes on the other man’s face. John turned away to tend to getting them breakfast, thought he was curious as to why the Detective Inspector was phoning at such an hour.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but Lestrade’s voice sounded strained as he spoke at an alarming speed.

**“When**?”  Sherlock demanded suddenly, his tone significantly harder than just seconds ago.

Lestrade answered tersely, and John began to grow frustrated at not having better hearing.

**“We’ll be there within the hour. Make sure none of your** **_idiot_ ** **men touch a thing.”**


	9. Crime Within a Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _April 18th, 8:15 AM, Avebury, England (On the Road to the Hampshire’s Home)_

 

After Sherlock dressed and packed in a wild rush, John checked out of the B&B, his friend impatiently pacing behind him. They piled their belongings into the car and, after the detective brusquely directed his friend to drive, set out in the direction of the Hampshire’s home.

**“So what’s happened, then?”** inquired the doctor, looking away from the road momentarily to catch Sherlock stealing a prolonged glance at him. Despite his feverish interest in this case, it was evident even to John that he was preoccupied about something, and that something had to do with John himself.

**“The Hampshires won’t be of any more use in this investigation,”** replied Sherlock cryptically, averting his gaze to narrow his eyes unseeingly upon the scenery passing outside the passenger window.

John turned his head and squinted at the other man, but returned his own eyes to the road, lest he cause an accident. **“Why not? Gotten a lawyer and refused to talk more?”**

**“No,”** stated Sherlock blandly, setting his lips into a hard line. The words he spoke next carried their usual cool, apathetic delivery. **“Unfortunately, they’ve been** **_murdered_** **. In their own home, no less.”**

If he’d been a man with lesser nerves, the veteran would have had trouble not jerking the wheel about with such a revelation. _Murdered?!_

**_“Oh…!”_ ** he gasped quietly, dismay lifting his brows together and sickening his stomach. But what about Abby…? She’d likely been present for the entire _thing_. Jesus Christ, the poor girl… Had she been injured? She must be alright, or Sherlock would’ve mentioned it...  right?

Beside him, Sherlock nodded, seemingly privy to the line of thinking John had taken. **“Their daughter is safe and sound, in protective custody. We’ll pay her a visit once I’ve taken a look at the scene.”**

**“Of course,”** John murmured, gritting his jaw as his knuckles tightened about the wheel. Well, _this_ had certainly took a grim turn, hadn’t it?

 

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_April 18th, 8:44 AM, Avebury, England (Outside The Hampshire’s Home)_

 

Thankfully, they’d made incredibly time, because just as John pulled into the drive, Greg appeared to be at his wit’s end, standing on the stoop with haggard features, waving one of his hands about in the face of one of his lessers. Taking a page from Sherlock’s short-tempered book, was he?

When he heard the crunch of the car’s tyres on the gravel path, the inspector looked up from his argument and pressed what John assumed was meant to be a relieved smile onto his face, but with how drawn and pale he looked, it might as well have been a pained grimace.

**“Ah, good - you’re here,”** sighed the salt-and-pepper haired man as the pair of them left the car and approached him. The other policeman vanished back into the house, with Sherlock’s eyes following him, though the three friends stayed outside for the time being.

**“Yes. I suppose not quickly enough, though. Someone’s ruined something, haven’t they?”**

Lestrade’s poorly constructed facade faltered as he raked his fingers over his scalp. As ever, he was unable to hide a thing from the penetrating deductive eye of the consulting detective. **“Yeh,”** he relented, blowing a harsh breath from between his lips. **“They had to get the girl out so a few things had to be moved. A table and chair, and the leg one of the bodies -- Everything else’s pristine, though. The local authorities thought it’d be best to leave some’in’ as high profile as this to us. Lucky me, eh?”**

**“Lucky indeed.”** Sherlock flashed an unsettling grin to Greg’s words, and John wasn’t entirely certain the boffin understood that the last bit of it had been clear and obvious sarcasm. Neither of the other two men thought to inform him on the misunderstanding, but the army doctor got a little bit of kick out of it, despite the dark circumstances.

**“Like winning the lottery on Christmas, this is,”** snorted John.

Gallows humour: he and Sherlock were just _brilliant_ at it. That, and giggling at crime scenes.


	10. Pagan Symbols on the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ** _Author's Note:_** Trigger warning for descriptive crime scene and a picture of blood.]

_April 18th, 8:50 AM, Avebury, England (Inside The Hampshire’s Home: The Crime Scene)_

 

_This_ particular crime scene, however… was far from anything worth giggling at. As soon as the crime-solving duo crossed the threshold, with Lestrade holding the police tape up for them, John was forced to clap his hand over his nose and mouth as his senses were assaulted all at once.

The living room, once a lovely, brightly appointed place, was now plummeted into darkness by the thick, black curtains covering every window and reflective surface, blocking out all but tiny slivers of sun here and there that cast the graphic scene in starkly contrasting light and shadow.

All about the room, the furniture, blanketed in the same cloth, had been pushed aside, over-turned to free up space, but every stable surface that remained held ceramic pots with lit incense, spirals of smoke still lazily drifting upward. The sensitive lining of John’s eyes and nostrils stung from the cloying scent of rosewood.

The walls, once home to cheery family portraits and knick-knacks, were utterly bereft of decoration. In place, violent spatters of blood, splashing hither and thither, some  blots painted into oddly intricate symbols whose origin John couldn’t place at first - the shock of it all sort of clouded out his thinking.

Sherlock stepped around John and scanned the walls, sinking into a pensive silence after uttering a single word. **“Aramaic…”** he muttered, once again answering a question the older man hadn’t even asked. While the detective read the mad scrawlings, John finally forced himself to look at the centre of the room, where he had been avoiding with his eyes since they’d arrived...

But there, on the wooden floor, completely naked and bathed in what was likely their own blood, were the prone forms of William and Lucille Hampshire. Lucy lay prostrate atop her husband, who himself was on his back, in a crude, splay-legged display obviously meant to mimic the act of love-making. There were multiple lacerations across their torsos, most of which were several centimetres deep and some of which that were half a metre long. The gory wounds were strangely clean and precise, despite the savage appearance of the scene, meaning either that the implements had been incredibly sharp and their users practised with them, or that the Hampshires hadn’t been conscious enough to move about while they were inflicted…

**“It’s always worse when you’ve met ‘em. And just yesterday, too…”** Greg sighed, putting words to the particular punch these macabre murders had given John to his gut.

And, as much horror as he’d seen in his day, the terrible stench of coppery blood and sweet incense sort of worsened this whole sight enough to make even the veteran’s stomach roil with nausea. John swallowed a bit of bile that bubbled up in his throat as he remembered that singularly important detail that had bothered him so much in the car.

_Abby…_

As he watched Sherlock snap on some latex gloves and move on to inspect the bodies in the corner of his eye, John back-peddled away from them and sidled up next to Greg, who was ordering one of the local CSI lads to steer clear for a moment. The doctor waited for his friend to finish with the other man before he cleared his throat and spoke up.

**“Just let ‘im work, alright? You’ll have your go in a moment,”** barked the inspector, exasperated, shooing them off with one hand as if they were little more than bothersome flies...

**“So…”** breathed John, eyeing the disgruntled and weirdly enthusiastic underlings. **“Ab-- their daughter’s in custody, then? How is she?”**

**“About as well as expected. She saw the whole thing, it looks like. Been sitting alone with the bodies for hours,”** murmured Lestrade, pursing his lips as he turned his eyes back to the deceased.

Hours? And the incense was still burning? Must be some rather special stock, then - _definitely_ not the cheap stuff one could buy at Poundland.

Sherlock had crouched beside the bodies and was lifting Lucy’s arm gingerly by the wrist, peering at the rug beneath her. It was so saturated in blood that the original Gaelic-inspired design was nearly imperceptible.

John nodded and linked his hands together behind his back in a common military stance. The ‘parade pose,’ they called it - for when soldiers were standing at attention in parades honoring the casualties of war. Seemed fitting. **“Next of kin gonna take her in?”**

Greg shook his head and glanced over at John with one side of his mouth pressing higher in a sad sort of smile. **“Dunno yet. The therapist at Scotland Yard is having a look at her first anyway, but we’ve not had any luck contacting someone. Really private lot, these two.”**

The inspector excused himself from John’s company as yet another investigator (a young blond woman with bookish features) approached him, asking after Sherlock and pestering him about ‘protocol breaches’ or summat. It was like having an even whinier version of Anderson about. Odd that Sherlock hadn’t gone off on her ye--

**“For the love of God - all of you - do shut** **_UP,_ ** **”** snapped the boffin, flashing his piercing gaze at Lestrade and the investigator for but a moment before returning it to the corpses. The commanding baritone of his voice utterly silenced the dull buzz of chatter throughout the entire house.

_Aaand, there we are_.

John mouthed a silent _‘I’m_ **_so_ ** _sorry_ ’ to the now properly frazzled woman, who promptly ignored him and walked off to grouse to one of her peers. Ah, well. Few could stand Sherlock when he was in a ‘sociable’ mood, much less when he was working. The relatively amiable doctor sometimes still forgot how important it was for his companion to have him ‘round, if only to provide a buffer to the public.

He was glad to feel useful, at the very least. Gave him something to do when he would rather steer clear of the more heart-wrenching crime scenes like this one. Still, it was starting to get a bit uncomfortable, standing around in silence with Greg at his side, likely feeling just as awkward if not as out-of-place.

At length, it was the inspector who broke the silence, voice nonchalant and eyes pointedly focused on his own hands as he adjusted the latex gloves on them. **“The boys think there were at least two attackers, what with the shoe prints, but I --”**

**“Three,”** cut in Sherlock, laying Lucy’s arm back down on the saturated rug and standing to his full height in one fluid motion.

**“Pardon?”** pressed Lestrade, glancing up from beneath his brows as John peered from one man to the other and back again.

**“Three attackers. Or, to be more specific, three people were here with the intent to harm the Hampshires. Two of them performed the physical act of killing while the other played a minimal role, if any. Likely an older male with some sort of difficulties. Aged, disabled. But why bring him along...?”**

There was a pause, in which neither John nor Greg spoke, because they knew quite well Sherlock didn’t want an answer from them. It came from his own lips soon enough, as he circled ‘round the bodies to focus on a mish-mash of footprints stamped into the rug, some smearing the blood, others skirting around to remain relatively pristine.

**“He wasn’t ‘brought along,’ he was leading them. Directing them. A superior that wished to be certain the job was being done correctly, but didn’t want to have a hand in it directly. Almost as if...”**

Another pause. John took a hesitant step towards his friend, taking care not to tred on any evidence, as the taller man sunk into another pensive trance. He didn’t know what possessed him to touch Sherlock on the shoulder, as normally this simple gesture would have shattered the detective’s concentration and had him frothing at the bit.

But...instead of the expected violent reaction, Sherlock simply shook his head, squinching his face up in the way he did whenever he was frustrated with himself. **“No, that’s stupid,”** he muttered, waving his hand in the air as if physically shoving away whatever notion that had come into his head. John played his part and toe-heeled backwards once, trying to give him some thinking room.

As he parted away, however, the icy eyes of the other lifted to meet John’s, his forehead smoothing for an instant. **“John,”** said Sherlock softly - a statement, not a question, though it may have well as been, for all intents and purposes.

Shaken by the jarring change in demeanor, the doctor acted on instinct and returned to his friend’s side, though he dared not lay a finger on him again. The mere close proximity of his body seemed to suffice to Sherlock, who nodded with thinned lips and furtively swept his gaze back over the bodies.

**“The cuts aren’t from any common household implement or anything I’m comfortably familiar with,”** he murmured, just loud enough for John alone to hear, oddly. The shorter man looked up to him with his brow twitching together slightly.

**“So you don’t know what they are just yet - that’s not so terrible. You’ll get it,”** returned the good doctor, adopting a comforting tone while simultaneously attempting not to sound patronizing.

Sherlock shook his head again and exhaled slowly, still pointedly looking literally anywhere _but_ John. A bit of tension caught in the latter’s throat as he noticed this, hitching the air in his lungs even as the former asked after his take on the case.

**“What do you think? About the bodies, the incense, the Aramaic sigils…?”**

John took in a deep, chest expanding breath, pressing his tongue into the inside of his cheek as he finally tore his own sights off of his mate to survey the scene in totality. What he saw was brutality, but also… a few things that reminded him of some things he’d seen in Afghanistan. When young brides hadn’t submitted to their groom's’ families wills, and were brought back to their father’s houses to…

**“Ho-honor killings? A ritual?”** posited the veteran, feeling as if he were grasping at straws. Yet, in his peripheral vision, the detective’s teeth flashed in a chuffed grin.

**“Both, I believe. Or something** **_meant_ ** **to look like a ritual. The real question now is… why? What purpose could there possibly be to create such a marvelous spectacle as-”**

**“Sherlock…”** muttered John under his breath in a terse tone.The blond woman from before was definitely glaring daggers into the backs of their skulls - he could just _feel_ it. The detective bit back a sigh and curtailed his excitement, but not without a _heavy_ dose of over-inflection dripping from nearly every syllable.

**“--To create this** ** _teeerribly_** **_tragic_** **spectacle before us,”** he drawled.

Lestrade was apparently having a bit of trouble keeping the others at bay at this point, as he approached the sleuthing pair and muttered through one side of his lips while keeping an eye on the restless lot.

**“So what’s the final word, then? What’ve we got here?”**

Sherlock slowly pulled the latex gloves from his hands, turning them inside out in the process just as he’d done with his own pair back at the stone circle, before deigning to answer. Greg stretched a sort of tense, expectant smile onto his lips while John just… sort of sighed. _Little shit, he was._

**“Three adult men, attackers, one elderly and an authority figure. Incredibly controlling and likely possessing a calculating wit. He walked only in the footprints left behind by the other attackers before any blood was spilled in an attempt to hide his presence, but…”**

The detective glanced up from his hands, smirking. **“Well, he frankly should have thought about varying shoe sizes and that uneven gait of his.”**

Lestrade straightened up and jutted his chin at the incense. **“And the motive? The weapons?”**

Sherlock lidded his eyes half-way as the cheeky expression faltered. **“Unclear, on both accounts. It’s obvious this was meant to point us in the direction of a fanatic religious cult, but I’ll need to speak with the girl…”** trailed off the boffin as the scene investigator joined their trio.

**“Are you quite done faffing about?”** she huffed. **“Because I’d like to do my job.”**

The strangest, almost _charming_ grin cracked across Sherlock's features, and he swept his arm out dramatically towards the bodies. **“Be my guest!”** he declared, before promptly turning for the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ** _Author's Note:_** Bit late in saying this, but this entire work is a constant work-in-progress. If you spot typos, continuity errors, or American spellings instead of UK spellings, please do comment and tell me! I'll spiff it right up. :)
> 
> Also, should I keep peppering in images and GIFs, or is that distracting? Maybe I should have even more? It definitely multiplies the time between posting since I have to hunt around for the perfect images, so if people aren't even fond of it I should likely stop bothering and just focus on the writing.]


	11. Like The Rest of Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _ **Author's Note:** From here on, I'll be posting the writing and adding pictures and GIFs afterwards, as I'm tired of keeping you lovely lot waiting. Sorry about this, dears! More to come._ ]

_ April 18th, 9:20 AM, On the Road Back to London _

 

Once John had spoken a bit more with Lestrade about whether it would even be possible for them to see Abigail (“For Sherlock? Of course it’s possible”), and apologised again to the grumpy local crime unit, he followed his friend outside to see him already sitting in the car. Not realizing the doctor had finished his business inside and was watching him, the detective dragged a long-fingered hand over his face wearily, stretching his jaw down into a yawn in the process.

Suddenly, however, he glanced toward the porch, became aware of John’s presence, and snapped his mouth shut. He placied his hands primly in his lap and squinted a sharpened gaze straight ahead.

**“So you** **_didn’t_ ** **sleep,”** John noted, sighing as he opened the driver side door and lowered himself into the seat. **“That why you’ve been acting off?”**

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further to veritable slits, but he didn’t turn to regard his flatmate in the least. **“No,”** he said flatly. In in that monosyllable answer, it sounded very much as if he didn’t wish to speak on it further.

**“I don’t believe you,”** smirked John, detaching his stare to look over the road as he turned the engine over. Well, he didn’t believe him _in part._ There was definitely something to the notion that sleep deprivation had been affecting Sherlock’s behavior, but of course that vague, mysterious ‘other’ still hovered heavily in the air. Something was troubling his friend, and the more he thought about it, the more it bothered _him_.

The ride was largely silent and, for the first time in a long time, John actually felt a palpable awkwardness between them. It got to the point where his stomach started knotting up, so he took in a short breath and cleared his throat softly, breaking the silence before he spoke.

**“So what was the ‘stupid’ thing you thought of?”**

The younger man scowled and layered his arms over his chest. He squinted his eyes again. **“Unimportant.”**

**“C’** ** _mooon_ ** **, Sherlock,”** grinned John, the elongated word grating in his throat with a cheeky groan. **“What will I write in my blog about if I don’t have a few false leads to pull the audience in?”**

The detective sighed harshly through his nose like a baited bull, but relented. **“I had considered the idea that the older attacker might have had a personal connection with the victims. A close friend, or family member.”**

This revelation had both of John’s brows rising high on his head, and he glanced over momentarily before refocusing on traffic. **“That sounds rather important. Why didn’t you tell Lestrade?”**

**“Because,”** began Sherlock, tucking his chin to his chest slightly. His voice was strangely softer, less biting, when he continued. **“There wasn’t anything concrete to back this theory up. I rarely act on gut feelings like the rest of you do.”**

 If he wasn’t so put off by being insulted for the billionth time, John would have likely noticed the way Sherlock had countered his frustration and lack of confidence in his own ideas by lashing out. He may have even suggested that the detective have more faith in himself, as his ideas were usually right, but… honestly, he was tamping down on his anger again and not in any sort of mood for giving pep talks.

**“Like the rest of us do,”** repeated John, the smile running away from his face to be replaced by straight-lipped frown. For the first time since they’d left the Hampshires, the detective peered over at his friend.

**  
“Sorry,”** he muttered, sounding conflicted between legitimate contrition and stubborn pride.

 John  popped his jaw a bit, not appearing _or_ sounding appeased despite the garbled reply that followed.

**“S’fine.”**

 It wasn't fine. It never is.


	12. Art Therapy

_April 18th, 11 AM, London, England (Scotland Yard)_

 

 The remainder of the ride was painfully silent, during which John set himself to contemplative brooding and Sherlock, strangely, broke free from his own Mind Palace to sneak glances at the other man. John nearly snapped at him, to ask him what was so bloody interesting, but thought better of it. They were both tense, and he’d taken that lumped together insult a bit hard, perhaps.

 At length, the duo reached London and pulled into Scotland Yard. Most there were already familiar with them, but John still had to flash his I.D. up front just before Sherlock breezed past him, coat fettering about his ankles. He was utterly apathetic to common courtesy, much less police protocol.

**“Sherlock, wait,”** called John in a terse tone. Somewhere near a militaristic command and a _desperate_ plea.

 To his mild disbelief, the detective actually did stop and turn on his heel briskly to regard his friend with with brows raised askance. **“** **_What,_   ** **John?”** he demanded, his impatience curtailed only slightly by his attempt to not be an utter prick as usual. He was trying, at least.

 The doctor jogged to catch up to him as he stuffed his wallet in his back pocket. **“We can’t just barge into a therapy session,”** whispered John, eyes ticking up and down the hall. **“She’s just a girl, and she’s seen her parents killed. You can’t just... pop in there and start asking questions. She’s already afraid of you, remember?”**

**“I quite recall, yes,”** sniffed Sherlock, glancing towards the door with bold black lettering titled ‘FAMILY ROOM.’ **“But if I allow that therapist to speak to her overlong, the woman might poison her mind. Those people shouldn’t be permitted to call themselves doctors.”**

John inhaled slowly and flared his nostrils as he held himself back from saying something defensive and, ultimately, nasty. Didn’t Sherlock remember how much therapy had helped him after he’d been discharged from service? Or was he of the mind that it was John’s therapist’s fault that he’d still had a limp and tremor when he’d met Sherlock?

That was it, wasn’t it? Bloody maniac.

Thankfully, just as Sherlock approached the rather large officer guarding the door to the room, there was a soft knock from the other side. The officer gave Sherlock the hairy eyeball, but stepped aside and opened the door, letting the psychologist out.

The woman was short, plump, middle-aged, with deep laugh-lines astride her thin lips, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, and her mousy-blonde hair up in a loose bun. All in all, not exactly what John had been expecting, but not enough to surprise him much - therapists were just people, of course.

**“She’s unfortunately not speaking much, but that’s to be expected,”** sighed the woman just after the door was closed behind her. She glanced up at Sherlock and her lips twitched before she looked away again, giving John the impression that she’d felt the brunt of the detective’s winning personality at least once more. She started handing a sheet of coloring paper to the officer as she continued. **“She drew a few pictures when I asked her if she could tell me what she saw, but this one’s the only one tha-”**

**“I’ll take that, if you please, Ms. Murphy,”** butt in Sherlock, snatching the paper away from her and scrutinizing it. For at least the second time today, John stepped up beside him and mouthed ‘sorry’ to Ms. Murphy, who promptly pressed her lips together and sighed through her nose.

**“From all appearances, she’s made monsters of the people that did this - Bogeymen - to cope,”** posited the therapist, still speaking to the guard as if John and Sherlock weren’t even there. **“What I don't understand is this smaller figure here…”**

Ms. Murphy finally lay her eyes on Sherlock in earnest, and extended her index finger towards the paper in the detective’s hands. She indicated what looked to John like a blobbish blue puddle with a peach sticking out on one side. There were two little black dots on the peach that looked like… eyes.

**“An infant,”** muttered Sherlock, neither to John nor to the psychiatrist.

Ms. Murphy blinked and raised both brows as John glanced up at her. He forced himself not to smirk at how impressed she was by Sherlock’s deciphering of childish scribbles. That was one of the doctor's favourite parts: blowing people away with Sherlock's genius. As if he were the one solving the riddle, John's chest swelled with pride.

**“Yes…”** she said hesitantly. **“That is how children usually draw swaddled babies. Why on Earth would she draw one, though? She doesn’t have siblings or young cousins…”**

Sherlock narrowed his gaze and tilted the picture slightly, dragging John’s attention back to him, then to drawing. **“What do you see, Sherlock?”** he pressed quietly.

**“They’re not Bogeymen,”** replied the boffin. Ms. Murphy opened her mouth to interject with her opposition, but Sherlock cut her off. **“The figures are wearing cloaks. Hooded cloaks. She’s drawn the cords around their waists and the darker shadow where the faces would be concealed - that’s too specific for a child to imagine up.”**

John canted his head as well, and Sherlock lowered his arms to let the shorter man get a better view. Oh, how _kind_ of him. **“But ah… couldn’t she have seen them in a scary movie or something?”**

Sherlock ‘tsk’ed softly. **“Unlikely. Her parents were extremely over-protective.** **I hazard a guess that she’s never seen anything not meant for a primary school student.”**

 The doctor raised his hand and traced the jagged grey talons sprouting from the hooded figures’ arms, coated in red at the tip from the two frowning figures they were attacking. **“So what about the claws piercing her parents bodies. Aren’t those imaginary?”**

**“I wasn’t certain before, but now… Now it’s obvious,”** muttered Sherlock, flicking his eyes up to his companions and smiling like a kid being offered his favourite candy. **“The more unsavoury pagan cults occasionally use these for their ceremonies.”**

 As if the entire group, sans Sherlock, had been kicked in the gut in tandem, Ms. Murphy, the stoic guard, and John all drew in soft gasps. They had all finally reached the horrifying conclusion the detective had lead them to as he spoke the answer aloud.

**“...Sacrificial daggers.”**


	13. A Promise & a Lie

_April 18th, 11:15 AM, London, England (Scotland Yard)_  

 

Battle-hardened as John might’ve been, he still felt an unceremonious twist to his gut at the thought of that poor little girl watching her parents be… ritually sacrificed.

**_“Jesus_** **_Christ…_** ” he whispered, as Ms. Murphy put her fingers to her lips and loosed a soft cry of dismay.

Sherlock nodded, eyes glinting. **“There’s no question, then: whoever that older man is, he wanted this to appear to be the work of a cult.”**

John shook his head, mouth opening and closing once before he found his words and looked to his friend with knitted brows. **“But why? What’d the Hampshires have to do with cults? They seemed like such nice, regular people. Just trying to live their lives…”**

Just before Sherlock could answer, the as-yet silent officer finally cleared his throat and beckoned with his hand as he nodded down at the drawing. **“I’ll need to take that to evidence for processing, Mr. Holmes,”** he interjected gruffly. Without even sparing him a glance, Sherlock scoffed and rolled the drawing up neatly.

**“Nonsense. You’ll have it when I’m done. John, it appears we’ll need to go back to their house after all.”**

The doctor and the officer traded a look before John took in a small breath and spoke up. **“Ah, Lestrade’ll still be there. We can take the drawing to him, yeah?”** He turned his head in order to meet his mate’s gaze, but found Sherlock already staring at him with a peculiarly chuffed grin.

**“Of course. You have my word that the detective-inspector will have this with as little delay as possible,”** he assured, lips flattening as the guard stared at him overlong. He didn’t remove his sights from John, however, regardless of with whom he spoke. The manners spread between these three could hardly cover a toddler’s. **“...And John’s word. Of course.”**

The guard quirked a brow over at John, who gave a quick bob of his head. **“Yes. It’s in good hands.”** He almost added the word ‘promise’ or sommat, but figured that was a tad juvenile, even in this company. As it was he was having a weird staring contest with Sherlock, apparently. The man wasn’t even blinking.

**“Fine, fine,”** sighed the guard, waving them off and returning to his post. **“S’not my** **_job_ ** **on the line or anything.”**

As Sherlock tucked the drawing away in his coat pocket, he broke his stare and gave a clipped nod to the psychiatrist. **“Ms. Murphy.”**

By then, the woman had regathered herself, but not enough to offer the venom in her words that she likely meant. **“Mr. Holmes…”** she replied slowly, before turning and waiting for the officer to open the door for her. Once she was inside and the guard had gone back to pretending neither of the sluething duo existed, Sherlock and John headed back outside. The instant they were on the road again, Sherlock tilted his head to John and smiled.

**“Thank you. I somehow hadn’t even thought of Lestrade,”** he said.

**“Thanks, but you rarely do, Sherlock”** chuckled John, unable to help the boyish flutter in his chest to hear his friend appreciate him. Now that he realized he was, in fact, in love with the man, it was harder and harder not to hang on to his every praise, or read into every damn thing he did and said. He focused on the road and tried to shove those thoughts from his mind by force, but in his periphery, he saw Sherlock’s expression falter.

**“Something wrong?”** murmured the younger man, returning his head to its usual angle. **“You’re flushed, John.”**

John nodded and cleared his throat, trying to keep the smile plastered to his features despite feeling as if he were under a microscope. **“I’m fine, Sherlock. Just thinking of other things.”**

Other things... like stupid, silly, school-boy crushes on one’s own best friend. The usual. Almost like clockwork, Sherlock averted his eyes and muttered **_“Oh,”_ ** softly, as if he understood somehow what had gone on in John’s head. Oh, Christ, he really hoped that wasn’t the case

_Just once, Sherlock, don’t read my bloody mind. Don’t do it. We’ll both be sorry._

**“Y-yeah,”** stammered John, before he inhaled quietly and put some more force behind his words. He noticed his grip had tightened on the wheel and consciously loosened it. **“Nothing important. Promise.”**

And there it was - the promise. A promise that was _complete_ and _utter **bullshit.**_


	14. The Discovery of Dylan

_ April 18th, 1:25 PM, Avebury, England (Inside The Hampshire’s Home) _

 

The return trip had been entirely uneventful. They’d made small-talk, which was somehow incrementally worse than dead silence, but despite the lunchtime traffic going out of London, they made good time reporting back to the scene.

By the time they arrived and Sherlock lifted the police tape for John, the bodies were in bags and being carted away to the morgue, leaving a skeleton crew of Lestrade and a few lingering CSI. Most evidence had been bagged and tagged, but the clean-up wouldn’t start until the investigation got thoroughly underway, which John was sure Sherlock appreciated. As the pair approached, Lestrade was seeing off the tense blonde woman from before.

**“You’ll have the autopsy report by mid-day tomorrow, hopefully,”** she said, glancing over at the consulting detective and scowling openly.

**“Alright. Thank you, Inspector Taylor. You’re excused,”** nodded Lestrade, following her gaze only after she’d turned on heel and flounced out. Huffy little one, wasn’t she?

The detective inspector welcomed the duo back into the home with a sweep of his arm before he let the limb flap to his side. **“You’re back,”** he noted. Before Sherlock could make a smart remark, he continued and stepped into the living room. **“Anything with Abigail?”**

Sherlock eyed a box of latex gloves left behind by one of the investigators and started snapping them on his wrists as he spoke. **“Quite a bit, surprisingly. Her ‘art’ provided insight into her family’s history. I’ll be having a look around now.”**

Greg smiled, though the expression was weary and somewhat contrived. **“Have a go, then,”** he nodded. The boffin made a bee-line for Abigail’s room as John approached Greg and inclined his head at him.

**“She drew a picture with some sort of hooded figures holding sacrificial daggers, and there was a baby at the bottom of the picture,”** explained the doctor, to the inspector’s obvious interest as his eyes widened.

**“But she doesn’t have any--”**

**“I know. Or, I think I know. Maybe Sherlock thinks these people weren’t as normal as they put on.”** He shrugged, slowly starting to amble after his best friend as if there were an invisible tether tugging him ever closer whether he wanted to or not. Thankfully, Greg didn’t question him much further, matching his step.

**“Well, yeah. I mean, they were murdered. Murdered people are seldom normal - especially if Sherlock’s taken an interest in them,”** smirked Lestrade dryly, keeping his gaze centered on the floor to avoid the blood stains.

The observation had John snorting softly with a shake of his head. **“That’s… yeh, that’s a fair summation. I just… I was sort of holding out for them, ya know? The poor girl - they looked like they were doing well, whatever was going on in the dark - she wasn’t part of it, I don’t think.”**

The inspector have a slow bob of his own head and pressed his lips together. **“Yeah…”** he sighed, smoothing his fingers over his lips before waving them in the air noncommittally. **“There goes any chance of a normal life for her, then. Therapy for life, and God knows if we’ll find family to take care of her. Hopefully she won’t get lost in the system.”**

Both men fell silent, contemplating the grim fate of the lone survivor of this gruesome tragedy, but their slow foot-falls in the hall must have alerted Sherlock to their presence.

**“John!”** he called, though there wasn’t any special urgency to it. Just… a need for his attention. John couldn’t help another flutter in his chest as he quickened his pace and stepped into the girl’s room. Sherlock was knelt in the furthest corner from the door, having pulled her Wiggles-themed bed from the wall and somehow jimmied up a wooden floorboard. He glanced up and craned his neck to peer over his shoulder at his friend before returning his attention to the contents of the trove hidden therein.

**“What’ve you found, Sherlock?”** asked John, flicking his eyes off of Lestrade, who had followed close behind. The doctor crouched next to the boffin with a soft grunt and draped his hands over his knees. **“Journals? Diaries?”**

**“And a photo album,”** finished Sherlock, carefully slipping his fingers beneath the decade-or-so-old book and thumbing backwards through the mostly blank pages until he came to the very first. As John tilted his head and squinted, Sherlock shifted closer until their shoulders nudged, and a small bit of heat rudely prickled at the tips of John’s ears and cheekbones.

He swallowed, trying to focus on the task at hand and the two lonely, grainy 90’s-era adorned the page. Both of them were dated nineteen years previous, September 21st, 1993. One was exceedingly normal, with younger versions of Lucille and William cradling a naked newborn infant with an older man standing behind them, his hand on Lucille’s shoulder. The child was… definitely male.

**“Sh...Sherlock, what…?”** sputtered John, confused. **“Who’s the boy?”**

Sherlock lofted a brow at him and tilted his head doggishly with a thoroughly nonplussed expression adorning his features. **“Their son,”** he supplied flatly.

_Oh. Well, yeah but…_ **“They don’t… they don’t have one though. Didn’t.”**

At this, Sherlock’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. **“Not anymore, perhaps.** **_They_ ** **certainly didn’t seem to think he survived past this photo** **_here._ ** **”**

With his free hand, he extended his gloved index finger to tap on the second picture - the decidedly abnormal one. In it, all eight figures save the boy were wearing the same black robes - even the Hampshires. Lucille and William, however, had their hoods pulled back, and the smiles they wore in the previous picture were replaced by grim, vacant stares. The remaining five were literally shrouded in mystery, the shadow of their hoods too dark to discern any features.

Even as Sherlock indicated the handwritten text beneath it, John read it aloud in a shell-shocked whisper. **“‘** **_Dylan’s Initiation Ceremony’_ ** **...”**

Brows knitting tightly with confusion and concern for this long-lost child, John looked up from the pictures to meet Sherlock’s gaze. **“So… you’re saying he didn’t live long after this? Do you think they…”** Oh _God._ He had to swallow back a bit of bile before voicing it aloud. **“D’you think they sacrificed him?”**

Sherlock thinned his lips and dropped his own brows low over his eyes, adopting a mocking intonation. **“Certainly not. If you’ll notice the older man in the first picture, it is clear from his body language that he was the one in charge of this family. The familial resemblance leads me to believe he’s the father of Lucille and thus the grandfather of both this child and Abigail. Now, if we extrapolate from the fact that there were no further pictures after this, then it’s obvious the Hampshires assumed him dead, but I am doubtful that he was used for something so simple as a sacrifice, otherwise Abigail herself might have met the same fate.”**

John blinked several times as he processed all of this, then his eyes were blown wide, creasing his forehead above. **“God, he’s alive then! He’s out there, somewhere!”**

The detective’s thinned lips quirked back up at one edge. He closed the album and placed it beside him on the floor to continue riffling through the hidey hole. **“That is the hope,”** he agreed. **“I’ll need more time going through these diaries. Lestrade, tell your men to look for any further pictures. He wouldn’t be in any missing persons database and likely his birth was kept out of the system, but there must be** **_some_ ** **other evidence regarding his whereabouts.**

**“Alright,”** John muttered, pushing himself up and straightening his trousers. **“I’ll just… leave you to it, then.”**

Sherlock quickly stole a glance up at him and narrowed his gaze, but returned his full attention to his search regardless, seemingly weighing whatever off-putting thing he’d heard in John’s voice against the import of this case and finding it lacking… for the time being.


	15. Flash-forward, Reprised

_April 19th, 2012. 3:46 a.m. Avebury, England (The Hampshire’s Home, Abigail’s Room)_

 

John stood over Sherlock Holmes as he meticulously studied the two family pictures and Abigail’s drawing. He sat at a low-chaired desk, much like a school child’s, his knees sticking out at awkward angles to accommodate his height. The army doctor tilted his head and tried to make sense of the gibberish he was scribbling on a paper on the desk, but the endeavor was hopeless.

This was the second night Sherlock had gone without sleep. He’d had a half cup of tea and a single bite of a biscuit to eat yesterday, but nothing since. Sherlock refused to sleep or eat, despite his mortal needs, until he’d made some sort of break-through on the case. John was growing increasingly worried for his well-being, but said nothing. Why would he? He’d get no response, anyway. Thus, he continued hovering over his friend, hands clasped behind his back, and waited.

Quite suddenly, Sherlock’s head drooped to the desk, and he was still. A soft, measured breathing replaced the near-feverish panting from minutes before. He was asleep. Feeling a sudden upwelling of primal protectiveness, John knelt down beside him on his good knee and placed his hand on his opposite shoulder.

Taking stock of his surroundings, the older man peered about the cluttered crime scene to be certain no one would see what he was about to do. Satisfied they were alone, He lay his cheek against the detective’s back, closed his eyes, and with a faint smile allowed himself to be lost in blissful fantasy.

**“I KNEW it!”**

Cold, terrible dread pitted his stomach as his eyes popped open. That voice was unmistakably Detective Inspector Lestrade’s. How had John not heard him coming? Had he dozed off?

**“No, I - …Shit,”** John whispered tersely as he pulled away from the slumbering Sherlock.

**“I KNEW it! You two ARE ga-“**

**“Stop. He… He can’t know,”** John said as calmly as he could past the lump forming in his throat. Here he was, a grown man, beholder of war crimes and the worst horrors a human could witness, and he was on the verge of tears. Dad would be so _very_ proud.

With a soft grunt, he pushed off of the ground and set his eyes on Greg and his gaping mouth. The confusion radiating off of him was palpable.

**“But you two are… you know…”**

The detective inspector mimed pounding his fists together, obviously uncomfortable with the prospect that he was illustrating.

**“N-no,** ” John said, swallowing. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, John saw that his friend seemed to be asleep still, though the black curls that had tumbled over his face might very well be concealing open eyes. His tongue snaked out from his mouth and moistened his lips, which suddenly felt dry as a bone.

When John looked back at Lestrade, he was opening and closing his mouth as he struggled for something to say. He appeared to be having a difficult time of this.

**“He can’t know how much I…”** John paused, inhaling a shuddering breath, then continued.

**“How much I care for him. He’s not like me, I think. He won’t feel the same… He hardly even feels at all.”**

A fiery mixture of determination and desperation bubbled up as John cast his eyes over Sherlock's prone form, and his gaze hardened. John regarded the pepper-haired police inspector with a narrowed gaze.

**“You won’t tell him, will you**?” John demanded, curling both hands into fists subconsciously.

**“Um… err…”** Lestrade’s line of sight transferred to over his shoulder. His fingers fumbled awkwardly for a moment before they were shoved into his trouser pockets.

Sherlock stirred behind him; John stiffened into a rigid statue.

******_"Mmnh…_ ** **Tell me what, John?”** he drawled in a sleep-deprived slur. John locked eyes with Lestrade and ground his jaw, daring him to say something. The inspector opened his mouth for a moment, only to he snap it shut.

**“Nothing important,”** John shrugged as he turned and walked to him, feigning nonchalance.

**“It wouldn’t interest you. In fact, I think it would bore you to tears.”**

Even exhausted, Sherlock went about examining him for clues as to why John was so obviously lying to him. Thankfully, though, he didn’t inquire further, instead straightening back up and returning his attention to his research.

**“Fine,”** he muttered, reverting his eyes to intently scan over the three documents he’d been staring at in silence for hours. What was he even looking at anymore? **“What’ve you found, Lestrade?”**

Still under the watchful and wary gaze of the doctor, Greg cleared his throat and pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket containing another family album, though this one appeared stuffed full even without opening - the edges of loose pictures stuck out of several pages, as if there simply hadn’t been enough room or time to properly glue them.

**“Y-yes,”** sputtered the inspector, before he found his nerve and glanced away from John’s steely stare to hand the album over to Sherlock. **“We actually had Abigail’s aunt and uncle - Lucille’s sister and brother-in-law - come forward to claim her. We searched their house as a precaution but didn’t find anything linking them to the murders, so she’s to stay with them in Newbury for--”**

**“Yes, yes, that’s wonderful,”** cut in Sherlock, impatience showing in his snappish tone and the scowl that had sprung to his lips. He hadn’t turned around to take the album yet, which was odd. Usually he was rather on his toes about things being handed to him. **“But about the** **_case,_ ** **Inspector. What did you find about the** **_case?_ "**

Lestrade thinned his lips in the tight mockery of a forced smile as he sighed through his nose and tapped the boffin on the shoulder with the bagged album. As he continued to explain, Sherlock finally raised his head, noticed what was being waved in his face, and quickly snatched it up to pull it from the bag. **“Well that’s just it, isn’t it? We didn’t find anything implicating** **_them_** **, but there were a few pictures in this and a few other albums with that older bloke from the other picture in them. When I asked who he was, they said that’s Leigh Boucher, Lucille’s father.”**

John uncrossed his arms from over his chest and knelt back down as Sherlock began flipping rapidly through the pages, never stopping for more than a half-second, until he finally landed on a large family shot with both women - Lucy and her sister, on either side of Leigh.

And once he settled on that picture, he… stared at it. For at least a minute, and John could swear everyone was holding their breaths at once. At length, his lungs burning, John let out a small breath and nodded at his friend.

**“What is it, Sherlock?”** he murmured softly.

Wordless at first, the detective extended his index finger to point at Leigh’s vivid blue eyes. One of them looked as if the photo had been borked - parts of it were coppery. If John didn’t know Sherlock and wasn’t a doctor, he might’ve believed his first guess. Instead, however, he spoke his realization aloud the same time Sherlock deemed them worthy to fill them in.

**_“Partial heterochromia…”_ ** they both whispered in tandem.

The other picture had been too grainy to see it, but there was no mistaking those eye speckles in this new picture for anything else. Behind them, Lestrade gasped as he, too, reached the conclusion literally staring them in the face.

**“Doesn’t… doesn’t the Wild Man have partial heterochromia?”**

John was still trying to connect the dots in his head, trying to figure out _why_ or _how_ a seemingly random attack by a mentally ill man on a little girl would have anything to do with the murders of her parents. He scrunched his brow up tightly and tilted his head this way and that - like a dog trying to catch a far off sound in his ears.

Sherlock, however, had begun frantically flipping through the album again, and the baritone droning he set into while explaining his reasoning filled the room, blotting out John’s thoughts entirely.

**“Heterochromia is rather rare and almost always genetic. Usually a product of head trauma but that’s not always the case. This… this Leigh Boucher’s jawline and eyes… I don’t know how I was so** **_stupid_ ** **to have missed it…”**

The sudden trailing off tugged both Greg and John to the present. **“Missed what?”** asked the latter.

**“The _'Mad Man,'_ ”** Sherlock began, voice raising several notches in volume as he fixed the silver-haired pair with frenzied intensity gleaming in his grin. **“...Is Dylan Hampshire!”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _ **Author's Note:** And now the flash-forward makes sense! Sorry that took so long, loves. Thought I had it ready last night, but had to pull it back for clarity re-writes._ ]


	16. Utterly Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ _ **Author's Note:** NSFW warning for poor, lonely John!_ ]

_April 19th, 2012. 4 a.m. Avebury, England (The Hampshire’s Home, Abigail’s Room)_

 

Both Lestrade and John remained silent, stunned as they were by the revelation, so of course, Sherlock filled the gap in with his indications for how they would proceed. 

**“I want you to go speak with the Dylan,”** Sherlock said, affixing his sights to John with a small furrow to his brow. **“They’re keeping him at the local station until he’s processed.”** He was enunciating much crisper than just when he’d first awoken, John finally noted… as if a two minute nap was all it took to recharge the great consulting detective’s batteries. He certainly seemed more machine than human, at times.

**“You’re better with children than I am. See if he is cognizant about anything that happened to him - anything at all about his memories could help me.”**

It wasn’t a question - he hadn’t asked him if John wanted to go over to a police station at four in the morning, he had just told him to do it. Normally it was something I’d put up a fight for, but now John was happy to oblige - anything to be out of that place. Anything to be away from Sherlock manic state, and Greg, stealing glances at him when he thought John wasn’t looking.

When he arrived at the bobby post in Avebury, however, the nightman at the front told him that Dylan had been given sedatives to help him sleep, and was thus not available for interviewing in the slightest. John blew out a harsh breath that flapped his lips and trudged back to the car, deciding to check back into the B&;B and get some sleep. He’d address this whole mess in the morning.

 

* * *

 

_April 19th, 2012. 4:40 a.m. Avebury, England (The B &B) _

 

John’s mud-caked boots felt like lead as he climbed the stairs, but he made it up without leaning too heavily on the railing. When he fished the key from his pocket and went to unlock the door, however, he received a text on his mobile. Fumbling for the device with his other hand, John unlocked the screen to see who it was from, though he already knew. The brightness forced him to squint as the screen flashed blue, then showed the message.

 

 _Went back to Henge. Won’t be back for some time_ **_\- SH_ **

 

 Dropping the phone into his jeans, he half-stumbled over to the armchair and fell into it with a heavy sigh. He ran his fingers through his hair and flopped the other over the armrest like a dead fish, mentally grousing that Sherlock would think to go it alone even after practically passing out in front of him.

 Besides his own thoughts, the steady ticking of the grandfather clock across from him were the only noises for a time. Canned laughter from the trash telly some others were watching across the hall (along with their chatting voices) filtered in every so often, but it wasn’t too bothersome. Almost as if he were home, hearing Mrs. Hudson putter around while watching her favourite shows in her own flat.

 His eyes drifted closed and he allowed his head to loll backward to stare at the the ceiling, which had a few holes in it that reminded him of the ones Sherlock had shot into theirs at Baker Street in a fit of boredom. A sardonic smile flickered across John’s lips as he chuckled once. One of these days, he would have to stucco those holes when Sherlock wasn’t around to stop him.

 Speaking of Sherlock not being around... John eased his chin down a little and looked down his nose at the clock face. He wouldn’t likely return to the room for another hour at the least. John flicked his brows up and craned his neck around to glance at the bolted front door. The other guests weren’t gabbing anymore, but the telly was still blaring. They’d probably fallen asleep in front of it or summat. John was, for the most part, alone.

_Lovely_. A nerve-calming sigh brushed past his lips as he smiled and lowered his head back to the headrest, relieving some of the tension that had built up in his chest. Reclining fully into the chair, he draped both elbows on the sides of it and stretched out both legs, feeling very much the proper lazy dosser.

 Tick-tick-tick-tick...

_“ I told him ‘e was the Da and he jus’ walked righ’ out th’ door! As if I wasn’t even-”_

 ...Tick-tick-tick-tick.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance, the sound muffled by the soft fog that had rolled in. John’s old tremor started up slowly, then gained strength; he gripped at the armrest to fight against it, but it continued unabated. It seemed slumber was beyond his reach for the moment. For the third time in several minutes, a sigh tore from him and he considered calling Sherlock to see how his investigation was doing. It was a foolish thought- he’d be angry with him for interrupting him, at best, and at worst he’d just ignore him. The thought actually made him smile. It would be so very _Sherlock_ to simply ignore his efforts to contact him.

...But what if he didn’t? What if John called him _righ_ t now and told him all about the things he’d been thinking about him, spontaneously acquired human emotions, and came rushing back to the inn, burst right through the door, and they shagged like animals right there on one of the beds?

_Hah… Funny, Watson._

What would that be like, making love to a man? John supposed it likely wasn’t much different than with a woman, at least for the person “on top.” An image flashed into his brain, a memory of Sherlock, inebriated and naked as John dressed him in his jimjams after Irene had drugged him. At the time he’d overlooked everything, avoiding looking at his bare, porcelain skin, and quickly clothed him.

Now though... now that he’d admitted a few things to himself, John held the image in place, endeavoring to remember every curvature, the moment his knuckles had pressed up against the detective’s bare buttocks as John dragged on a pair of night trousers. How his tangled curls had brushed against his temples as he murmured unintelligibly into his pillow. The good doctor had completely avoided catching a glimpse of his cock and balls somehow… pity.

His now still hand slowly moved from the armrest and slid over the worn fabric toward the crotch of his jeans. A faint but growing bulge pressed against the center seam eagerly, if uncomfortably. **_God_** , he was horny. Hadn’t even _touched_ his knob in what felt like weeks. John deftly unbuttoned and tucked his hand into his trousers to free himself... then stopped.

What… what was he doing? Was he seriously going to _wank_ to a man?

_No_ , John thought, a smile tugging at one side of his lips. _Not a man. Sherlock Holmes._

He continued, pulling his semi-stiff prick from its confines and wrapping his fingers snugly about the fleshy girth. John could feel his pulse flooding it with more and more blood, hardening and lengthening it as he watched with a detached, listless gaze until he was gripping a full-fledged erection.

_Ugh. Didn’t even have to tease it up, did I? All I had to do was think about… about..._

_Sherlock..._

That time they’d gone to Buckingham Palace and Sherlock had been wearing naught but a powder blue blanket... Mycroft had nearly ripped it from his waist, and Sherlock had threatened to keep walking. How ironic that Sherlock and John had laughed about Mycroft being a ‘queen.’ Now here John was, fantasising about that moment and playing around with it in his head as he stroked himself languidly. How things had changed...

Again his mind drifted back to how novel the experience of making love to a man -- Sherlock -- would be like. He’d seen arseholes before, but usually on women when he was behind them, shoving himself into their cunts with such overconfidence it was shaming to remember. They weren’t all that sexy, really - arseholes. The very idea of that puckering opening put him off somewhat, until John moved on to imaging gently pushing his cock into Sherlock’s tight, clenching rump...

His grip strengthened on his member and he began moving the foreskin up and over the aching crown, then pulling it back again. It would be just like shagging a virgin woman, John thought, perhaps even a bit tighter. They’d need lubrication of some sort, but that was easily taken care of. Yeah, he could just imagine slathering himself with some warming oil and gliding right in there, as if he’d belonged there all along.

Peering down at his hands as he tugged the shaft, John noticed a bead of moisture had formed on the very cleft of his tip. His other hand lifted from the chair and flattened the palm against it, before sliding downward to spread the precum over the sensitive, wrinkled ring just under the dusky head.

**_“Ah!”_ ** he gasped softly. The too-strong feeling of it caused him to tilt his hips away reflexively, before he yet more vigorously rubbed the pad of his thumb in circles about the area to desensitize himself. It really had been a _while_ since he’d done this...

Faintly, John remembered Sherlock coming cross the B-grade porn in his secret favourites folder, how smug he’d been at finding it all despite his efforts to delete his browser history. He’d acted so superior, with that priggish expression, as if wanking to videos of people having sex was something only a Neanderthal would do. He just didn’t understand it, and John couldn’t understand _him_ for not understanding it. On top of that, John briefly thanked God that he hadn’t looked up any queer films yet. There was that, at least.

Now that his entire prick was slick with his own fluid, John curled his hand into a loose fist and hovered it over the head. It would feel like the best fuck he’d ever had, pressing himself into Sherlock’s bum. His fist lowered to envelop himself, almost painfully slow. When they contacted, John rutted his hips up, pushing himself halfway through his hand before stilling his body again. John couldn’t hear the clock or television anymore over the roar of blood in his ears and soft panting - nothing existed around him. It was all in his mind, now.

What would Sherlock say to him while he was making love to him, if anything? Would there be smart remarks, sarcasm, silence? Or would he just be softly moaning his name over and over again? John preferred the latter, and latched onto the imagined sound like a hungry lion catching a scent.

_John,_ he’d coo in a whisper. _Oh, John..._

His hand moved up and down his length as he tilted his head skyward and let his lips part, reveling in the fantasy. Without even meaning to, John started picking up the pace, pumping the shaft while he squeezed tighter and tighter.

**“Feels good, dunnit, Sherlock?”** he grunted, canines brushing over his bottom lip until each breath and heated word had to be forced between bared teeth. **“F-feels good with my** **_cock_ ** **inside you…”**

John lifted his bum out of the chair again and again in a frantic rhythm for several more seconds, humping his own hand, until he started to feel that familiar glorious tension building. His eyes cinched closed tightly and he gritted his teeth, letting his own filthy mouth and vibrant imagination whisk him away to his peak.

**“Oh,** **_fffuck..._ ** **”** John hissed. **“Yeh, take it, Sherlo -- ah, God! ...** **_Ah-ahh_ ** **~!”**

His free hand jolted forward and formed a cup over the tip of his knob just in time for the the first shot of cum to splatter into it, saving him from having to clean the area rug later. Each pulse propelled another thick, warm stream into his palm, where it dribbled down back onto his spasming cock. He continued thrusting, using his own fluids as lube and relishing the lewd, wet **_squelching_ ** sounds that made until he’d milked himself completely. All the while, he whispered Sherlock’s name, over and over, moaning quietly, until...

The throbs of his orgasm began subsiding, and he sighed with no small amount of relief. Basking in a _fantastic_ high, John briskly wiped his hands on his jeans, and flopped his head into the backrest with another whispered **“** ** _God…”_ **

He took another few moments to fully come back down and catch a hold of his breathing, but at length, he tucked his spent member back into his pants, before melting fully into the chair. He **finally** felt sleepy enough to doze off...


	17. Secrets Untold

_April 19th, 2012. 5 a.m. Avebury, England (The B &B) _

 

 A very particular _someone_ cleared their throat awkwardly seconds after John had started to settle in. His body went cold as he returned to alertness with a start, freezing in place for several agonizing moments.

_No._ Oh, dear **_God_** **,** please let him be imagining this...

**“John...?”** Sherlock queried behind him, his voice a half-octave higher with equal parts bemusement, surprise, and awkwardness. John could just _hear_ that smirk of his. John dared not turn around, though the reflection in the glass case of the grandfather clock showed his flatmate standing stiffly at the room’s door, his gloved hand still on the handle. His expression was unreadable; John averted his eyes to his now sticky hand, then the moist bit of his trousers.

**“How long have... have you been there?”** he finally managed to mutter after he had swallowed several times.

 The detective dragged on the silence, not answering, not moving, not even breathing. John could swear he was doing it on purpose to torture him, extend his humiliation for as long as possible. His mind began to race along with his heart.

**“Sherlock, how** **_long_ ** **have you** **_been there_** ** _?”_** His voice had a demanding, hard edge to it that he hadn’t used in some time, as if he was giving an order to a lower ranked soldier. It nearly shocked him to hear it coming out now.

 Sherlock didn’t reply, instead taking three long strides past him, carrying a soft draft smelling of incense after him. Hee sunk into the bed catty-corner from John and braced his hands on his knees. His knuckles were white, his features drawn from lack of sleep... or perhaps something else. John didn’t look long enough at his face to figure it out, though he doubted he would have been able to, even if he inspected Sherlock for hours.

Heat snaked up his neck and licked at his cheeks mercilessly as he kept focused on a spot on the bed near his friend instead. John knew his face and ears were bright red by now, and the knowledge only deepened his embarrassment. Still Sherlock did not utter a word. He just _stared_ at him, the piercing intensity of his pale, hawkish gaze on the edges of his vision far too much to bear.

A choked, hysterical sort of laughing-sob wracked the doctor’s body once, but he kept his composure and went on staring with hard eyes at the quilt. It felt as if the soft ticking of the clock were now mocking him somehow.

**“ _Heh,_ You’re back early. How did you…? I didn’t --”** John blurted, coughing. How had Sherlock even gotten there? Taken a cab? That must’ve been it. **“-- Er… Didn’t expect you back for another couple of hours.”**

Silence. Stone-faced, dreadful, heart-wrenching **_silence._ **

**“...Sherlock, please,**   ** _say_ ** **something,”** John pleaded, his voice cracking with the emotion he was suppressing. How did Sherlock even do this, hide everything from the world? It was a horrible feeling to bottle all this up. Anger, yes - he’d stuffed that down deeply ever since Afghanistan... but this was different. The man with whom he’d been living for near on a year now, the only man he’d ever _loved_ this way, had just watched his masturbate. To _him_.  His body began to quake, as if the tremors in his hand had spontaneously spread throughout his entire form.

**“H-how much did you see?”** he choked out.

The pregnant pause filled only by the telly in the other room, and the ticking clock seemed to drag on for ages. Sherlock closed his eyes slowly. 

_Tic, tic, tic tic..._

**“I saw you pleasure yourself, John. I saw you masturbate while you thought of** **_me_** **.”**

The sudden break of silence, especially with that bald truth, rocked John to his core. He flinched and met the other man’s eyes. His throat felt tight and he had to swallow several times more before he ran his trembling hand across his mouth… but didn’t know what to say. What _was_ there to say? Sherlock had seen and heard everything. Sherlock-bloody-Holmes had just seen him wank while calling his name.

**“I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out. You’re in love with me, aren’t you, John Watson? These past few weeks, I** **_knew_ ** **something had been different… But you said you weren’t interested so many times, I’d started to believe you, sort of… Hmh…”**

The rims of John’s eyes burned as his vision blurred with tears. He couldn’t stop them before they spilled over onto his cheeks, making him feel ever-so-manly. He pressed his lips together and flared his nostrils in a quiet sniffle, but he did not look away from him. An expression unlike any he’d ever seen came across the detective’s features. It took him several seconds to register that in his slightly slackened jaw and unfocused pupils, there was a measure of awe etched in the younger man’s expression. The tears trailed down the faint creases in John’s skin to his chin, where it dribbled onto the offending stain on his pants. He nodded, understanding what he had to do, then.

**“Sorry you saw that… I didn’t… Look, I guess I didn’t realize it myself. Once we’re done with the case I can… move out, if you want. I understand.”** He didn’t want to make Sherlock uncomfortable or obstruct his work, after all, did he?

He waited for a reply for a half-second, but none came - or… not the one he was expecting, at least. Suddenly, Sherlock jumped up off of the bed and breezed past him. John heard the front door slam shut, the bolt lock, then his heavy footfalls coming back over to him. Out of nowhere, John watched a broad, long-fingered hand clap firmly on his shoulder.

**“Come to the bed. Now,”** he said in authoritative, if flat tone. John’s eyes were blown wide, before he blinked several times in rapid succession, clearing away some of the tears blinding him.

**“Sherlock, wha--?”** he began, but a firm squeeze on his shoulder hushed him. He craned his head back to try to gauge the boffin’s expression.

**“And stop your blubbering,”** smirked Sherlock, lips twitching strangely. Something in his eyes looked… apprehensive, making the mirth on his mouth look forced. But his voice was so very commanding… the dissonance was unsettling. **“It really isn’t flattering -- makes your eyes look horrid.”**

Without waiting for a retort that they both knew wasn’t coming, Sherlock walked swiftly and purposefully to his luggage. John followed his movements with his eyes, but didn’t rise from the chair, even when he saw his friend _undressing_ , tossing his clothes on the floor.

**“What is it about the concept of ‘now’ that you do not comprehend?”** came his voice, louder. There he went again, with his ‘concepts.’ He was standing before the bed, torso bare, belt nowhere to be seen, and zip undone, with his hands planted on his hips and an aggravated scowl on his face.

Even _John_ wasn’t expecting what came out of his own mouth.

**“…Why?”**

Sherlock’s eyes widened, then were shadowed by his brows as they pulled low over them. John could almost _hear_ him thinking _‘how dare he!?’_ He felt a thrill in his stomach at having frustrated him - or even insulted him - so easily.

He didn’t move a single muscle, though his heart was trying its damndest to shatter through his ribs. It frantically beat against his chest like a rabid animal caged against its will. John wondered if the other man could hear it, then banished the thought; just because he was impossibly smart didn’t mean he also had superhuman senses.

**“You seem to want me, for reasons I** **_cannot_ ** **fathom,”** Sherlock finally supplied with an exasperated huff as he threw his hands in the air. He’d implied he was unwantable and yet _John_ was the one being obtuse. If it wasn’t so frustrating and sad, it might have been amusing.

**“I’ve decided I want to know how it feels! I want to make love, or whatever silly euphemism you care for. Isn’t it obvious? Just… please, John. I now know for certain you want some semblance of, well...”**

Well, what? An experiment? A friend with benefits? Either way, John was certain he didn’t want a part of _that_.

John shook his head, stubbornly hiding his vulnerable heart behind obstinance. **“This… isn’t what I wanted, Sherlock.”** He wanted to make _love_ , certainly, but… The way Sherlock had said it… it all sounded like a test. An experiment. It was… too clinical. Was he being unrealistic, expecting anything different from a man that lived his entire life by cold logic and deductive reasoning? Was it too much to ask for something… maybe… more?

**“That’s preposterous,”** Sherlock sighed, his voice rising in pitch and volume as the wildness in his expression leaked into it. **“ How could you possibly say that after I’ve what I just watched you** **_do?"_** ****

He was pacing before him now, though it really was hard to take him seriously with his naked trunk on display. Still, John was in no mood for laughter. His anger had somehow instilled indignation into him, burrowing itself into his chest and kicking everything around it to make room for itself. His temperature was steadily rising and he suddenly felt far too hot for his jacket.

He pushed up from the chair and started ripping it off, an action which caused Sherlock to stop pacing and eye him with guarded anticipation. John threw it on the floor at his feet.

**“Because, Sherlock! I dunno -- Let’s start with how you know almost everything there is to know about me. You know where I grew up, that I have a lesbian sister who’s a recovering alcoholic--“**

**“She’s not exactly recovering, by what I’ve gathered,”** he smoothed, crossing his arms over his bare chest. John didn’t know what he was talking about, but then again, he didn’t fucking care.

**“Shut** **_UP!_ ** **See, that’s what I mean! You know** **_everything_**! **You now even know I... I’m in love with you, but I don’t know a bloody** **_thing_ ** **about--“**

**“John, hush,”** Sherlock interrupted softly, letting his arms drop as he jutted his chin towards the front door. The doctor’s head whipped around to it, and he snarled **“Go away, we’re busy!”** Then immediately regretted it. There was quiet outside the door, and then John heard the faint sound of someone shuffling away in house slippers. Lovely.

**“You really shouldn’t shout at them,”** Sherlock said dryly. John turned sharply back to him with a venomous glare and flared nostrils. He felt like an angry, injured bull cornered by a matador. **“It’s not their fault you’re sexually confused.”**

John scoffed and turned away to fume in the opposite direction, his hands at his sides clenching and unclenching. **“You. Are.** **_Impossible_** **.”**

He had yet to wipe the tears from his face, but they were already drying - leaving his skin feeling crusted, stiff. John could not shake the thought that his father’s ghost was staring down (or up) from wherever he was, arms crossed, loathing that John had been expelled from his loins. His father had been a good man, but tolerance of “fags” had never been his strong suit. Here John was, head over heels in love with his best mate, crying like a lad with a skinned knee. Yup, he’d made his dad proud.

Behind him, Sherlock stood in silence for several seconds. Finally, however, the detective spoke, his words deathly quiet.

**“Irene Adler... isn’t dead.”**


	18. Just an Experiment of the Heart and Body, That's All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ** _Author's Note:_** Trigger warning for semi-non-con. This chapter is ENTIRELY NSFW. You've been duly warned. ;) __
> 
> __  
> _P.S. I really need more GIFs and pictures for the chapters missing or with too few of them. If you could send some suggestions to me via my main Tumblr (http://thebananasaurus.tumblr.com/), I'd be eternally grateful. I may not use all of them, but I appreciate your help regardless. <3 _]__  
> 

_April 19th, 2012. 5:20 a.m. Avebury, England (The B &B)_

 

John turned around and pursed his mouth into a small, utterly baffled circle. Was this Sherlock’s piss-poor attempt at revealing something about himself? A blatant _lie_?

**“You -- wot?”** he breathed, blinking a few times.

**“She isn’t dead,”** Sherlock repeated simply as his gaze rose to meet the other’s, the picture of nonchalance even as he stood there half-naked. **“I didn’t tell you because I thought it might endanger her. I cared about her, John - but you already knew that, at least.”**

His current state of undress proved utterly distracting to John’s already flurried thoughts. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, frustrated beyond belief.

**“I was there, John. I killed those idiotic “terrorists” that I was not supposed to know about - With a lovely scimitar, actually. Pity I had to pitch it to run faster.”** He looked off to the side with a small squint.

**“Sherlock,”** John sighed wearily, a slow shake to his head following. **“Mycroft told him he was** ** _sure_** **. Her phone was found with her beheaded body. You can’t honestly still beli-“**

A memory stopped him mid-syllable. “ _It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me. And I don't think he was on hand, do you?”_

Sherlock chuckled as he watched the dawn of realisation break across his friend’s face.

**“You… cheeky** **_bastard!_ ** **”** John said, actually laughing. It felt so good to really laugh, so he let it take him over. It spread to the bottom of his stomach and through his muscles until he was doubled-over, gripping at his knees. John heard Sherlock let loose a few mirthful chortles as well. Alright, then - now he knew something about Sherlock that no one other than Irene herself was aware of. Not even Mycroft. That felt… good. Empowering.

As their tittering died down, it was replaced by an impregnable silence. John straightened and regarded his friend with all the objectivity he could muster. Sherlock really was an odd-looking bloke; such sharp, wide cheekbones, thin, almond eyes spaced far too wide apart on his skull, and a chin that went on for ages. He was positively reptilian. A realisation crept up on him then, slowly and faintly at first, before it gained a foothold and broke out into the spotlight in his mind, making itself known.

**“I’m not gay, Sherlock.** **_Hah ...!_** **how funny to say that out loud and be completely positive about it. I’m not gay!”** John shouted, raising his arms in the air as if in prayer. The revelation flushed through his muscles, warming them again. Running hot and cold in such a small span of time would probably exhaust him even further, but there really wasn’t much John could do about it. When John looked back at Sherlock, the skin between his brows was slightly puckered.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock seemed puzzled. He took a tentative bare-footed step forward into the sitting room, then stopped. He tilted his head like a odd little bird, narrowing his eyes at him as if that would assist in understanding. It apparently did not.

**“You’re a man in love with a man,”** he murmured, tentatively - as if he were afraid John had just gone off the deep-end without a life preserver. **“That is... the very definition of being homosexual, or at least one of them.** **_Now_ ** **who’s being impossible?”**

John flashed his teeth in a near-maniacal grin. It didn’t matter what Sherlock thought of his sexuality - he knew what he was, now. He was a mostly straight man in love with another man. That was it. **“I’m not gay, Sherlock, because I don’t want you because of your body. I want you because of who you are. I honestly don’t care if I don’t know** **_every_ ** **minute detail in your life! I love you for what I know you to be.”**

**“Then I propose that you are, instead, demisexual,”** Sherlock cut in. The unfamiliar word was tacked up to him being overly cerebral. Sometimes, John thought he made up words just to frustrate him.

But now, John was the one pacing the room, gaining speed with every circuit, and thus not truly hearing am iota of what Sherlock was saying. Every now and again he glanced back up at the taller man, but quickly looked away and continued letting the floodgates release.

**“And I’ve heard you talk about how ‘** ** _love is dangerous_** **,’ how it’s ‘** ** _a sentiment for fools_** **,”** he said, voice growing nasal each time he mocked Sherlock’s own words.

**“--But I saw how heartbroken you were when you genuinely thought she was dead that first time! I saw how you didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, composed music for hours - just as if you were trying to solve a case. You were in love with her, Sherlock. You didn’t just** **_‘care_ ** **’ for her. You really are a human being, subject to the same** **_shit_ ** **we all go throu--”**

Abruptly, he had to stop short as Sherlock’s brazenly bare form suddenly obstructed his path. John slowly raised his head from the floor, scanning up the other man’s body until he was craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle to view his face. Tall bugger.

**“You’re mistaken,”** muttered Sherlock, lips drawn taut and voice as hard as the glare he bore down upon the shorter man with. **“I was not in love, I was** **_infatuated_** **. A chemical reaction that, yes, I was subject to despite my best efforts to evade, took control of my mind and body. But I was not then, nor am I now, in love with Irene Adler. Our relationship is one of mutual** **_respect.”_ **

John inhaled deeply, slowly, then exhaled through his nose. Where was he going with this? And why did he have to be so insanely close? The warmth emanating from his skin was palpable even through the doctor’s clothes.

Sherlock smirked suddenly. **“You’re aroused right** **_now_** **. This is exciting you, how close I am.”**

**“No, I’m not,”** John stated firmly, planting his fists on his hips.

Sherlock drew a hand between them and cupped his friend’s package unexpectedly. John’s breath caught for just a moment, but he forced himself to keep breathing and keep eye contact. He wouldn’t let Sherlock have the satisfaction of knowing how he could affect him, despite the fact that he clearly already knew by the state of what he was rudely groping.

**“Pupils dilating, pores opening, skin reddening, not to mention the very ostentatious erection you’re sporting. You** **_do_ ** **enjoy my body, John. It’s rather stubborn of you to insist otherwise.”**

John swatted his hand away from him and about-faced once more, a harsh sound grating in his throat. He just couldn’t look at him anymore, though he knew very well that the detective was boring holes into the back of his head with an unbroken gaze.

**“Bloody hell, Sherlock,”** growled John. **“You and your brother and your stupid love of power trips…”**

The Holmes brothers always seemed like they not only thrived, but subsisted on the discomfort and inferiority of others. It really wasn’t fair, falling for Sherlock. He blamed himself, mostly, but there was still a heavy dose of bitterness towards the boffin for just… _ruining_ him.

**“Fine,”** he spat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. The sensation of a gaping hole there gave him no small amount of frustration. He knew that feeling, the feeling of a heart breaking, and the fact that Sherlock was the one drawing it out of him only made it hurt worse. **“I’m in love with you. I want to shag you, but I still don’t think I’m gay. I don’t think these thoughts about other men - only you. It’s only** **_EVER_ ** **been you…”**

He paused, lips parting to speak, but finding no air to put to the words, he pulled in a ragged, shaking breath instead. He heard Sherlock take a step towards him, but didn’t budge.

**“I… I bet you love that, don’t you? You arse. You get a big kick out of it - that you can just... turn my entire view of the world upside down and make me question myself on** **_everything.”_ **

**"Yes,”** Sherlock admitted quickly enough. Though... there was something in the mono-syllable answer that made John finally turn back around. He found that famous smirk vanished from the detective’s mouth, only to be replaced by an unfamiliar softness to his eyes. They grazed over John’s face without the searing, piercing see-right-through-you intensity he was used to. Instead, those mossy-blues of Sherlock’s shown faintly with... moisture. John’s heart just about leapt out of his bloody mouth.

**“My brother... has always teased me about my being a virgin, ever since secondary school when he managed to convince a girl to bed him,”** muttered Sherlock, upper lip curling momentarily with evident disgust, or perhaps something more self-depreciative.

**“He and Irene had a laugh, even Moriarty calls me ‘The Virgin.’ I’ve never reacted, always just pretended to ignore them all. It wasn’t that they were hurting my feelings or something** **_pitiful_ ** **along those lines.  It was just because I was... curious how it felt, but I couldn’t indulge in his curiosity…”**

The boffin’s gaze fell to the side again as his voice softened yet further. **“Like an experiment that I was forbidden to conduct because of some** **_inane_ ** **law or another, I was unable to experience the high of endorphins of a body post-orgasm… because I… I don’t even truly know why, honestly,”** admitted the detective, nose crinkling for a moment before his features returned to placid contemplation.

That was an incredibly awkward thing to confess, and it took John a moment to register what he’d said, but when it did he sputtered and flushed crimson. He’d never even _orgasmed_ before? Jesus Christ, no wonder he was so cold and bitter all the time. In John’s eyes, that would have driven him _insane._

**“So you’ve never fap-- masturbated? Not even once?”** John asked, his own voice lowering to a stage whisper.

**“Not even once,”** Sherlock replied with a gentle smile as he reverted his sights to John. The expression was _definitely_ tinged with a self-deprecating air. He had his brilliant, one-of-a-kind eyes swimming with untapped emotion, and both brows were slightly pinched inward. _Ohh_ , but Sherlock knew how to play his flatmate, didn’t he? He stepped toward John once, closing the gap between them, and placed his hands back on the doctor’s crotch again. John let out a small gasp as his arms shot upward and gripped toned biceps, halting the other man from doing anything further.

**“Err... --** **_Ehem_ ** **, you know I want this, Sherlock. Just... not like** **_this,_ ** **you know? I can’t sleep with you. It would… hurt too much, I think. I couldn’t handle it.”**

**“Why?”** murmured the younger man, eyelids lowered so that his lashes brushed against his cheeks. Whatever he was looking at would be too embarrassing to think about, though it was in all likelihood either John’s still-hardened knob, or the stain on his trousers. Sherlock rolled his shoulders in order to free himself, but John just tightened his grip despite the fantastic feel of lean muscles moving beneath the marblesque skin.

Was he really going to make him say it out loud? Surely he’d guessed the reason why and was simply being purposefully obtuse...

**“Because, Sherlock,”** said John warily, brows lifting together to form deep creases in the skin between them. **“You don’t feel the same things I do. It would mean more to me than it would to you. You said yourself, it’d just be another experiment.”**

Sherlock’s eyes flew to John’s and his nostrils flared, almost as if he was… stung by the accusation. John called his bluff, though in doing so felt as if I’d been punched through the chest with a spiked gauntlet.

**“Don’t act like** ** _you’re_** **offended,”** John bristled, **“You know it’s true. You’re just acting like that to get your way, regardless of my feelings. Just like always.”**

**“False,”** Sherlock spat tersely, the upper edge of his top lip curling back in a muted snarl. The fire returned to his eyes full-force and he locked them with John’s. **“I do care** **_very_ ** **much about your feelings. This is not just an experiment of the body; It is one of the mind. I want to test my** **_own_ ** **feelings, revel in the idiocy of emotion and sentiment to see if I actually do have a heart. Humour me.”**

_Oh God._ **_Humour_ ** _him? Is he joking?_

**“No.”** John released his arms and backed away with his palms raised defensively, throwing up that old familiar wall he’d constructed after the war. He repeated himself for emphasis, yes, but also to make certain within himself that this was what he wanted. **“No.”** The word was flat, it was simple, and it was final. John crossed his arms tightly over his aching chest and set his jaw firmly.

He couldn’t have possibly planned for the violent reaction that came next, but a shift in Sherlock’s posture had his entire body locking up just before Sherlock’s teeth were bared briefly like an angry dog. He lunged forward, wrapping him in an iron-armed embrace and trapping him against his naked chest.

**“Agh! Sherlock!”** John shouted, struggling uselessly against his binds. When did he get so strong all of the sudden? **“No means n-** ** _mmph!”_**

Sherlock’s head had darted forward then, cutting John off as he pressed his lips to him in a harsh, hard-mouthed, extremely awkward kiss.

But _oh_ , his **_lips_ ** ; they were warm and insistent as they moved against his own, trying to find purchase. The motions were so desperate, so imploring, that John found himself dazed and unable to keep fighting. His bad knee gave way, then the other, and he would have collapsed to the floor had Sherlock not been holding him so tightly. As it was, their stances and gravity drove them together further..

Sherlock canted his head to one side slightly and deepened the kiss, adding tongue to the equation. John balked at first, refusing to open up his mouth. But the boffin persisted, probing, his warm breath curling from his mouth across his friend’s face, weakening John’s resolve. The doctor parted his lips ever so slightly and Sherlock pushed his tongue in before running it along the roof of his mouth.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock pulled his head back, though did not release the his friend. John immediately noticed that the detective’s breathing was measured and slow compared to his own shallow panting, which was unnerving in its contrast to the fervor he’d shown him. John’s hard-on was as hard as a rock and straining uncomfortably against its denim confines. Sherlock, half-naked and gripping the other man tightly against his body, was completely flaccid. Was he not enjoying this at all? That stung John’s ego quite a bit.

**“Disappointing,”** Sherlock rumbled, a sour-looking scowl tightening his face as he looked past John. **“Though not surprising. Mouths are receptacles for a myriad of bacteria - not the least bit enticing to taste.”**

He was talking to himself, taking verbal notes, just like any of his experiments. John’s stomach twisted and he gritted his teeth, but he could not bring himself to renew his efforts to extricate himself. He just… couldn’t.

**“S-so what now?”** John stuttered, almost entirely certain he didn’t want to know. Sherlock looked down at him and the scowl melted in a cat-like grin.

**“Oh, Christ--“** was all John got out before he lurched them both over to the bed and unceremoniously pushed him into a seated position atop it. Sherlock’s crotch hovered inches in front of his face, but John couldn’t move or rise, as he was held him down firmly by his shoulders.

John grimaced and closed one eye. Why would Sherlock want him in this position? Did he expect him to just… spontaneously be alright with sucking cock after having just insisted he wasn’t gay? **“Sherlock, please don’t make me do what I think you want me to do.”**

**“Put my penis in your mouth, John,”** he commanded, glaring down the slope of his cheekbones. Eugh, why’d he have to use the word ‘penis?’ So clinical.

**“Please, Sherlock, I don’t even know what to do!”** complained John, tipping his chin up to look at his friend in the face instead of at his package.

Sherlock sighed harshly through his flared nostrils, clearly frustrated, but at the same time, the peculiar softness from before leaked into his eyes and the uncertain, lop-sided smile returned. **“Do what you’d want done to you.”**

The stark sense his command made gave him pause. John blew out a breath, trying desperately to grasp at the straws of his mind. He was really about to do this, wasn’t he? John was about to blow a man simply because he was telling him to. Well, that and John really didn’t have much of a choice. Some small part of him was… actually glad he hadn’t given him one. And that part of him was the masochist part.

**“Fine. But you’re going to be very sensitive at first,”** John warned as he moved his hand to Sherlock’s zip. He’d meant to fish his friend’s member out from his trousers but… his fingers stopped just a hair's breadth away, and there they stayed for several seconds.

**“What are you doing?”** Sherlock rumbled, suddenly impatient.

**“I’ve uh… I’ve never touched a pe-- a cock other than my own.”** John muttered as he stared at his groin, somehow embarrassed at the admission.

**“You’re a doctor, John,”** sighed Sherlock. His smile was tugged downward into an exasperated frown.

John face twisted and he peered up at him incredulously. **“That’s--! ...That’s different! I meant sexually, you twat!”** he sputtered.

Sherlock’s eyes closed and he shook his head once. **“I don’t care. We both want this, so it’s no use refusing. Put it in your mouth, John.”**

The doctor made a noise in his throat and kept looking up at his friend’s now serenely expressionless façade. It seemed he was serious.

_Right, well… here goes nothing?_

John flicked his eyes back to Sherlock’s crotch. He hesitantly tugged aside the flaps and set his gaze on the other man’s pubic area for the first time. The dark curls were thicker and coarser than the ones on his head, but just as expertly trimmed. He was such a perfectionist when it came to grooming himself.

John's hand moved the rest of the way and John laced two fingers under his shaft quickly, then let it rest there, sandwiched between his immaculately cared for bollocks and his dick for a brief bit as John felt the warmth seep into his cold hands. He was mildly surprised Sherlock wasn’t complaining about the temperature difference, and even more surprised when John heard a grating sound come from somewhere above his head. John chanced a glance upward through his lashes just in time to catch Sherlock closing his mouth. Had he just… groaned?

John kept his eyes on him, watching him carefully for any hint of… anything, as he continued to voyage into unknown territory. The rest of his fingers looped beneath Sherlock’s manhood and gently moved along to the tip, then down to just before the frenulum, then back to the base again. Sherlock must have felt him observing his face, because he made no new sounds, nor moved his lips. Discouraged, John was just about to voice his objections to this whole thing, when John felt the tiniest of twitches in his hand. He locked on to Sherlock’s cock and watched it pulse to life as a vein along the top raised and defined itself against his milky skin.

**"Oh, Christ,“** huffed John. brows lifting together. He was turning him on, finally. Touching him, stroking him… he was making Sherlock hard. Had anyone ever done that before? No… No, he was the first. The _only._

******_"Ehem_ ** **\- Something wrong?”**

Sherlock’s voice drifted down to him and sifted into his reverie, though the sound was without intonation, even more robotic than usual. He was trying so hard not to let on that he was being affected by John’s fingers. How adorable.

**“N-no,”** mumbled the veteran in reply. He’d seen the way the younger man’s body was reacting to his touches, and it _thrilled_ him. Emboldened, John leaned forward and exhaled slowly onto his groin. The vein throbbed again. John nearly came in his trousers right then and there, but somehow managed to reign in his arousal in the interest of pleasuring Sherlock. Still, he had to be free of those jeans. The zip track would rub him raw if he didn’t.

Without asking, John moved to undo his own fly, all the while keeping Sherlock busy by gently fondling his hardening knob. The detective ‘s body tensed and his grip about John’s shoulders tightened, as if he meant to stop him, but thankfully did not protest. John knew he wanted to control every aspect of this experiment, even down to how, when, and if John mutually wanked along with him. He could just sense it. The controlling bastard.

Once his zip was down, his own erection popped out rather easily and bobbed a bit for a moment before stilling. John sighed with relief and returned his full attention to Sherlock, who was completely stiff by now. The vein he’d noticed before now had a twin several degrees south, the crown was a wonderful dusky pink, and his bollocks had retracted somewhat into his body in preparation. He was somewhat smaller than John expected he’d be when fully erect, but the size was nothing to be ashamed of. It was perfectly proportioned to his height, at least in length. The girth was another matter - he was definitely at _least_ a third thicker than John was.

Christ, John was playing the doctor again.

Observations aside, this was… easily the best thing that had ever happened to him, so he took in the sight, awestruck. Sherlock cleared his throat again, this time impatiently.

**“Fine, fine...”** John relented with a roll of his eyes. John took a deep, steadying breath and brought his tip to his lips in the gentlest of kisses…

But as expected, it was too much for poor virgin Sherlock. The younger man hissed and pulled his hips away reflexively. But in that brief contact had set John’s lips on fire, as if I’d gargled with hot sauce. He ran his tongue along the bottom edge of his lips and peered up at the detective’s face.

Sherlock was tensed, though not as extreme as he’d been expecting. His lips and cheek muscles were smooth, without expression. Had it not been for the slight upward lilt to his eyebrows, he may have been _unconscious_. John took that to mean Sherlock’d entered a state of deep concentration, and John was faced with a dilemma; should he stop and leave this nonsense behind them, or give into him and his fantasies? If he did this, it would definitely no longer be able to deny that he wasn’t nor had ever been, completely straight. The finality of it caused his stomach to flutter oddly.

The intelligent thing to do was to stop, because John was certain that although they would both enjoy what he proposed, it would be little more than an answer to a question for Sherlock. And once that answer was found, nothing would ever come of it again. That would surely kill John just as a bullet to the head.

But as he looked upon that face of his mate’s, he knew that never knowing what it felt like would eat away at him for the rest of his days. He cursed softly and lifted the turgid tool back to his moistened lips, letting his eyes slide closed as he suckled Sherlock into his mouth. The alien feeling of a knob on his tongue threatened to trigger his gag reflex,  so John swallowed to quell it... and tasted salt.

**“** ** _Ah_ ** **\- John~!”** Sherlock gasped, the name on his tongue rolling out in a baritone moan. The doctor’s eyes popped open to look at him. His face was impossibly serene still, but now those half-lidded, prism-like eyes of his were open, dark and unfocused. John retracted his head but kept his fingers wrapped about his shaft securely.

**“I told you it might be sensitive,”** John smirked, trying to sound smarmy past the obvious thickness to his voice.

**“** **_Nh_ ** **-no… It feels...”** Sherlock stammered, shaking his head. **“I can’t believe I missed this all these years. Continue.”**

John set his lips in a line, unsure and feeling rather awkward. Sherlock looked down at him past his aquiline nose. **“Please,”** he added.

The older man raised a brow dubiously. **“Well, since you’re being so** **_polite_ ** **about it.”**

Again, John lifted him to his mouth and pressed him through his lips, taking him in only just past the tip. Again, he suckled lightly, running his tongue along the cleft, exploring tentatively. Again, he tasted salt.

What was he supposed to do next? Oh, right. _‘Do what he’d want done to him’_. John pushed more of him into mouth while keeping his eyes locked on his face. The further John went, the more his lips had to stretch to accommodate him, but the faint pulse of Sherlock’s member on his tongue drove him further until his tip nearly touched the back of his throat. John stopped and held him there, letting his tongue smooth over him, memorize every centimeter of taut, heated skin.

**“Oh, God…”** whispered Sherlock, his breathing shallowing out. One of his hands moved from John’s shoulder to cup his cheek in an almost tender display.

_Yes!_ exulted John mentally. _You love it when I’m sucking you, don’t you? You’re mine tonight, Sherlock. Mine and mine alone._

Bringing his free hand up and bracing it on the angular shelf of the detective’s hip, John bobbed his head gently a few times. Sherlock’s forehead tightened as his eyebrows lifted, then his cherubic lips parted further. _John_ was making him do that. _He_ was giving him pleasure he’d never experienced before. _He_ was going to be the first person to make Sherlock cum. _He_... couldn’t take it anymore.

With a groan, John let his other hand slip from that shaft and started tugging on himself. It felt so bloody _good_ to just forget everything, all pretenses, to lose himself in the moment. He let himself succumb to the haze of lust and fell into a steady rhythm of sucking and stroking, bringing them both closer and closer to their peaks.

Sherlock’s fingers threaded through his hair and an odd sound rumbled out of him. John looked up briefly, ripped from his dream-like state by the touch, and saw that Sherlock’s head was craned backward. His long, marble-skinned throat went on forever, the Adam’s apple rising and falling a few times as he swallowed. John kept going, increasing the suction, not aware of what was about to happen...

Out of nowhere, Sherlock sputtered out the other man’s name, gripping the side of John’s head in desperation. **“J-John!”**

Sherlock shuddered as his member jolted suddenly. John tried to disengage, but with both hands the younger man forced his head forward and Sherlock’s molten release hit the back of his throat and filled his mouth.

_Oh,_ **_God._ **

John pushed against the other mightily, gagging around his pulsating cock, but only when he’d finished cumming would John be able to free himself and lean over the bed spitting and hacking. Creamy, pearlescent fluid drooled in disgusting strings from his mouth, and he couldn’t seem to get a clear breath, no matter how much he gasped… there was just too much.

**“You twa-** **_huAK_ ** **!”** John began, coughing, but a massive twist to his stomach interrupted him. Sherlock dropped himself onto the bed as John made a run for the loo. He shoved the door against the wall, knelt over the toilet, and retched violently.

After a few seconds of this, John heard Sherlock’s voice drifting over to him, languid, but actually a bit concerned.

**“John... You alright? I’m… I’m sorry!”** he called, noticeably trying to concentrate on the poor friend he’d just **_face-fucked_ ** over that self-same flood of endorphins he’d been waxing poetic about.

John coughed and spat the last of his stomach’s contents into the bowl, then flushed. **“Hateful little shit,”** he croaked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He wouldn’t answer him outright, because that tosser knew damned well what he’d done.

That had _not_ been an accident, he’d had to have known what was coming and he didn’t give John the slightest bit of warning. After brushing his teeth, he stormed over to his suitcase, changed to his pyjamas (rather difficult with half an erection), and went to bed with his back turned to the man who’d just essentially assaulted him. Smart as he was, Sherlock didn’t dare bother him for the rest of the night… save for three final, soft words, whispered in what sounded like earnest regret.

**_“I’m sorry, John…”_ **

What did he fucking care how sorry the blighter was? He damned well _SHOULD_ be sorry. Fuck him. Fuck his stupid experiment. Fuck this broken heart of John’s for thinking that would have ended positively at all.

It had been a mistake, and one he intended to put past him… if only to salvage what remained of his fragile emotions.


	19. Can't Have You Alone With Him

_ April 19th, 2012. 8 a.m. Avebury, England (The B&B) _

 

When John woke just a few hours later, his face felt stiff and it was difficult to open his eyes but for the crust sealing them. He’d been crying in his sleep, that much was clear, but sitting on the edge of his bed to try to make sense of his dream - and last night - warranted no results. Brief flashes, images, noises, smells - none of it could be pieced together in a logical fashion. It was all a chaotic blur. 

There had been screaming, blood, the acrid stench of gunpowder, and... Sherlock’s face. Always Sherlock’s face, contorted hideously in monstrous fits of rage. He had been yelling something, but the words sounded alien, just gibberish. John dropped his head into his hands and stared at the floor for several minutes, begging in silence for the world to stop spinning and warping around him.

Eventually, it did. Slowly John became aware of the sheer stillness of everything. Though his mind was racing faster than he could keep up with, the room and the flat weren’t moving. There was no noise, no shuffling about or clinking of coffee mugs. The only motion was the dust motes drifting through the beams of sunlight from his window. In all likelihood, Sherlock had never even gone to sleep and had left in the wee hours of the morning. That was fine with him... John needed time to gather his senses and regain some semblance of sanity.

Feeling like he was coming off of a bad trip, John stumbled to the loo and scrubbed his face. As the water ran from the tap, John peered at his reflection. The lines on his forehead and on either side of his lips seemed to be deeper than usual, and his eyes were bloodshot.

**“You look like shit, John Watson,”** he chuckled. And he did. He looked like I’d been to hell in back in just a few short hours. Didn’t even see the point in shaving today, since he’d forgotten to yesterday anyway. He might as well grow a beard and mustache, for all he cared.

The laughter, short and dark, bore the scratchiness of a man definitely not prepared to face the day… But there was work to be done. John dressed, went downstairs and stuffed some unbuttered bread into his mouth, then got in the car and drove off to see if Dylan would be inclined to see him. If not, he was sure Sherlock would find some other way to get at him.

 

* * *

 

_ April 19th, 2012. 8 a.m. Wiltshire Police Building (15 Minutes From Avebury)  _

 

****Walking into a small-town police department looking like a bedraggled homeless man definitely garnered some untoward attention from the front desk clerks and officers milling about. John figuratively held his head high, however, and strode to the nearest clerk with a polite smile stretching his lips wide.

**“Morning,”** said the doctor as the man at the desk appraised him with dubious eyes. Despite John’s attempted candor, the form-letter response he got was to be expected.

**“Good morning, sir,”** replied the clerk, pressing an entirely contrived smile of his own on his youthful, chubby features. **“What can I help you with?”**

**“I’m Dr. John Watson,”** he began, pulling out his wallet and flashing his I.D. **“Scotland Yard should’ve called ahead and t--”**

 The desk jockey leaned over his folded arms to squint quickly at the card before returning his eyes back up to John with a slightly more genuine expression of interest perking up on his features. Poor lad - he seemed bored out of his mind. This case must be the first interesting one he’d seen in ages.

**“Ah, yes, the famous Dr. Watson!”** chirped the clerk, cheeks dimpling. **“Detective-Inspector Lestrade said you’d be here to speak with err…”**

**“Dylan Hampshire, yes,”** smiled John, returning his wallet to his back pocket. Thank goodness for all this police-level clearance he got flouncing about with Sherlock, or nothing would **_ever_ ** get done. **“It’s a pleasure to meet you, by the way, Mister… Fellows, is it?”**

John had glanced at the tag on the clerk’s chest before Fellows seemingly got a bit flustered that he’d forgotten to introduce himself to a small-time celebrity. The younger bloke pushed himself out of his office chair and came round the desk, flipping open the turnstile blocking John’s path in the process.

** “R-right, yes, sorry. It’s a pleasure, doctor. We just finished up putting his DNA and all that in the system, so he’s all yours. We can’t have you in there alone with him though, unfortunately, even restrained. Hope that’s alright.” **

The doctor nodded amiably and walked past the desk, after which the turnstile was returned to its locked position behind him. **“That’s fine. Where to?”**

 


	20. The Child, The Chalice, and the Blade

_April 19th, 2012. 8:10 a.m. Wiltshire Police Building (15 Minutes From Avebury)_

 

**“Right this way - I’ll take you to the room, and the guard on duty will go in with you.”**

Fellows swept his arm out and pointed with his entire hand down the short hall leading away from the front desk. There was only four doors, as opposed to Scotland Yard’s veritable kilometre-long corridors.

**“Mmkay,”** nodded John, falling into step behind the slightly taller lad. This would be sort of like how he’d investigated Abby, only this time, he’d actually be _speaking_ to the person instead of appraising their art. He wondered what level of cognizance Dylan was capable of. Logically he wasn’t properly able to identify himself, or this whole mystery would have been sorted from the beginning. And he likely didn’t all the intricacies of the law, but he might understand right from wrong…

Instead of idly guessing at the possibilities, John took the initiative and asked the guard (a sturdy-looking woman with an unfortunate unibrow), and Fellows. **“Has a psychiatrist evaluated what level he’s operating at? Intelligence-wise, I mean?”**

Fellows looked at the guard, who in turn pressed her lips together and nodded in greeting to the doctor before offering her answer. **“No more than a primary school student, if that. S’more complex than that but I’m sure you’ll understand once you speak to ‘im. You’re Doctor Watson, yeah?”**

**“That I am,”** replied John offering his hand out. The guard shook it with an alarming amount of pressure, smiled for a half-second, then dropped both her arm and the expression flat.

**“Officer Hwan Cho. I’d stay away from the bed if I were you. He has a helluva kick.”**

John tried to conceal the surprise he felt at hearing that, choosing to slip his fingers into his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them after. **“Pleasure, Officer Cho. I’ll ah… keep an eye out, then.”**

With a tiny bit of nervous apprehension seizing in his gut, he waited for Cho to unlock the door and step inside. Fellows bobbed his head and started to make his leave. **“Good luck in there, doctor,”** he called, before disappearing behind the door to the front desk.

‘Good luck’? Christ, was Dylan _possessed?_...No. That’s stupid. John wasn’t really a religious man, and he certainly didn’t believe in demons… but still.

Feeling less and less like he were qualified to even be speaking to the boy-in-a-man’s body, John nonetheless forged on ahead into the room and his senses were assaulted by an oppressive wall of ammonia stench. Clearly, Dylan had made a mess of himself and they’d had to bleach the area, but good _LORD._

The sight of the room - teal-tiled walls cast in dim fluorescent office lighting, plain-looking cabinets on one corner - was hardly conducive to comfort. It looked like someone had cleared out the breakroom to make room for the lad, who was currently atop a gurney, dressed in a hospital gown, curled into the fetal position. He hugged his knees to his chest with his free arm and stared, wide-eyed and trembling visibly. His other wrist was tightly handcuffed to the railing of the make-shift bed, and even as John watched, Dylan tried to tug at his binds, clinking metal against metal uselessly.

**“It’s alright, love - this is Doctor Watson,”** assured Cho in a soft, comforting voice that posed a stark contrast to the gruff demeanor he’d seen just a minute ago. She made eye contact with John and motioned for him to stay near the wall next to her as she closed the door behind them.

Upon the word ‘doctor’, however, Dylan inhaled sharply and began shaking his head violently back and forth. **“Nnnh!”** he whined, quite obviously terrified. **“Nnnh! Nnn-no! No doctors!”**

As the lanky blonde yanked again at his cuffs, John noticed track marks on his arm, and various bruises up and down its length. Someone - or several somones - had attempted to put an IV in this poor fellow. He’d likely ripped them all out.

John pressed a small smile onto his features and lifted his brows. **“I’m not here to stick you, Dylan. No needles. Just want to ask you some things.”**

Cho had been watching Dylan carefully during his upset, but at the doctor’s assurances, she gave him a questioning glance. No one had told John about the troubles with the needles, obviously, so she was likely a bit confused. Maybe Sherlock had rubbed off on him a little by now, or maybe he was just that good of a physician, eh?

Dylan stopped struggling and fixed John with a wary glare out from beneath the curtain of his bedraggled bangs. After a long, unsettling pause, he flared his nostrils and took in another sharp breath. **“Who’s Dylan…?”** he muttered quietly.

Blinking, John ticked his gaze over to Cho just as he realized his mistake. Of course he didn’t know his own name. He’d already thought of that before entering. Well, there went all the bonus points to being observant.

**“He calls himself ‘The Child,’”** the officer supplied quietly. John nodded, as if this was somehow standard procedure. Fuck if _he_ knew how to deal with the highly emotionally disturbed. He’s a body doctor, not a psychologist. ‘The Child’ it was.

**“O-okay, Child…”** began John, returning his eyes to Dylan. **“Do you know who Lucille and William Hampshire are?”**

Another uncomfortable stretch of silence in which the boy only breathed in ragged, uneven breaths. At length, he shook his head once. John thinned his lips, a bit frustrated, but no less determined. If he didn’t know anything about his own parents, he’d likely not know much about a sister he possibly never met until terrorizing her at the henge a few days ago… but it was worth a try.

**“What about... Abigail?”**

At this, Dylan’s brows shot up and he lifted his chin from its perch atop his knees. **“Abby?”** he whispered, so softly, it was hardly audible above the hum of the lights above.

John inhaled a half-breath and held it, his own eyes widening slightly until he endeavoured to temper his expression. **“Do you know Abby, Child?”**

**“Abby… I hurt Abby… The Child…”** Dylan continued to utter in hushed tones, turning his face aside as if in shame. **“The Chalice made The Child… and I hurt her…”**

Hang on. Now John was entirely confused. Who was the Chalice? Is that the person he considered his mother? He thinks he hurt his mother? Or…

Wait, no. Dylan wasn’t talking about himself as ‘The Child’ in this instance… he was talking about… Abby? What was with all this symbology? Bloody hell - Sherlock had been right - there was no way a cult wasn’t involved in all this.

**“Dyl--Child,”** John said, stumbling over the weird title. **“You didn’t hurt Abby. She’s fine.”**

_Physically, at least…_

He tried to quell dark thoughts about the mental condition of a child that had been terrorized by a mad man, a consulting detective, and murderous cult members all in one week. Hopefully her aunt and uncle would be having police protection until this case was sorted. He briefly wondered if the sort of mental break-down Dylan had was congenital or as a result of trauma. Would Abby end up like him - half-animal, half-human?

He continued, struggling with his over-active empathy for the girl but nonetheless present in the here and now. **“What’s ah… What’s the Chalice?”**

Dylan sniffled and carefully gave the doctor a mistrustful side-eye, not deigning to turn his head back just yet. **“Abby is... fine,”** he mimicked in a monotone, as if making sure he heard correctly.

**“Yes, she’s alright. She’s safe,”** assured John, managing to put on a smiling facade of near-perfect serenity. He’d done it before countless times for his men and his patients, he could do it again for Dylan. Only someone like the Holmes brothers would’ve been able to tell the lie.

**“What’s the Chalice, Child?”** repeated John in a soft, non-intrusive tone, tilting his head slightly.

 Once again there was a pause, during which Dylan rubbed his forearm and sniffed a few times. John, ever patient, waited seemingly in perpetuity. Finally, in the same vacant voice as before, the boy intoned **“The Chalice created the Child…”**

_The Chalice created the Child… Figuratively or literally? Taken literally it would definitely only be talking about Abby’s mother, Lucy, but…  Why would Dylan be talking about Abby’s mum and not know anything about her? Why wouldn’t he know he was from the same parents? Who the fuck actually_ **_raised_ ** _this man?_

With his thoughts spiraling wildly, he hadn’t realized that he’d finally checked out of reality until Cho cleared her throat beside him.

**“Is there anything else you need to ask him?”** prompted up the guard, catching John’s eye and jutting her chin towards Dylan, who was still rubbing his arm obsessively and staring in stony silence.

**“Oh! Right, yeah, sorry,”** stammered John, scrunching his nose with a sheepish grimace towards the officer before fixing Dylan with the saccharine smile from before. **“Do you know… Leigh Boucher?”**

The boy’s expression remained unchanged. He neither nodded nor shook his head. This was one was rather important, and since Lucy and William were already dead, there hadn’t been any need to upset him with pressing the matter… But Leigh had been the single other unmasked figure in those old photos that Sherlock had been pouring over. John had to know for sure.

Bracing himself, the doctor slowly took out his mobile and flicked over to his gallery, where he’d taken a few pictures of Leigh from the photos. **“I’m gonna show you a picture of a man, and I want to know if you know him, alright?”**

Beside him, Cho tensed, but didn’t stop him when he stretched out his arm and displayed the screen for Dylan to see. By how the latter reacted, she rightly _should_ have.

_Immediately,_ Dylan flew into a frenzy, squealing like a stuck pig and scrambling backwards on the gurney.

**“The** **_BLADE!”_ ** he screeched. **“THE BLADE! BLADE, BLADE,** **_BLA-EEEEDE!”_ **

Launching into action, Cho yanked John back by his shoulders and put herself between him and the suddenly frantic man. **“Out! Doctor, get yerself outta here!”**

John, no stranger to chaos but rather unprepared to deal with this precise predicament, politely excused himself from the room and shut the door behind him. The sounds of the officer and Dylan scuffling inside were loud, but brief, as he assumed the poor man was given a prescribed sedative.

**“Ch-Christ…”** muttered John, clutching his hand to his chest as his heart hammered away. He wasn’t frightened, just… coursing with adrenaline. He’d expected there to be some sort of reaction, but that, most certainly, had not been the one in mind.

_The Blade? First the Child and the Chalice, now the Blade._

He waited another moment to steady his breathing, ignoring the heads popping round the corner of the door from the front desk area to see what all the fuss was about. Once he had complete control over his thoughts, he lifted the mobile still in his hand back up to quickly text Sherlock. He’d know what all this symbology nonsense was about. And maybe he’d made some progress… doing whatever it was he’d been doing.

Even if last night had been horrid and John was of course still incredibly angry, finishing this case like a professional would keep him sane. He’d address those feelings when necessary. Maybe never. His therapist would surely _love_ that.


	21. Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[ _Author's Note:_** If someone could kindly link me to a way to change font style in skins (so I can differentiate mobile texts from normal dialogue), I would be incredibly grateful.]

_ April 19th, 2012. 9 a.m. Wiltshire Police Building (15 Minutes From Avebury) _

 

_**[Just finished “speaking” with Dylan Hampshire. Where are you? Found anything?]** _

John just sent that quick line - all business, with just a hint of snark in quotations owing to the _very_ conversational quality of the “chat” he’d just had. After that, he signed out of the police station and stepped outside, but not before thanking Fellows profusely for the opportunity and promising he’d put in a good word for him at Scotland Yard.

The response from Sherlock took slightly longer than he’d anticipated, which worried him, but it came, and with it a strange sense of relief. It was as if he were afraid the detective wouldn’t respond at all, for some reason, considering the uncomfortable state of their relationship now. Nonetheless, he tempered the untoward emotion and read as he walked to his car.

_ **[I’ve been asking around the Circle. The hoods in the drawing are clearly similar to the ones the druids here wear. No one will speak with me about Boucher. They’re furtively avoiding me. What did Dylan say? -SH]** _

_Ooo,_ John could almost _hear_ the tension and frustration in Sherlock’s voice even over text. Sherlock liked a puzzle, he liked his chases, but nothing got him more into a fuss than people reacting with button-lips to his interrogations. The doctor couldn’t help but smirk a bit at the mere thought of his friend getting huffy, but was mercifully swift with his answer regardless.

_ **[He called himself and Abigail the Child, and I’m pretty sure he called Lucille the Chalice and Leigh Boucher the Blade. Got very upset when I showed him a picture of Boucher. Does that mean anything to you?]** _

This time, Sherlock texted back within a couple of seconds, not even long enough for John to open the driver’s side door. He paused with one hand on the handle, the mobile in the other.

_ **[Brilliant! Could you seek out the girl? Newbury, aunt and uncle should be under surveillance but I’ll text Lestrade. One of them must know more about where we can find Boucher. - SH]** _

John peered down at the words with tensed, thinned lips and his brows set into a hard line. Two things bothered him about that message: one, Sherlock was asking him to bother that poor girl and her remaining family again, and two… he was _asking._  Since when does Sherlock Holmes _ask_ John Watson to do anything? He demands it. He orders it. He implies it should have already been done… but he doesn’t _ask_. Even as the doctor stared, befuddled, another text came, this time with a singularly confounding word.

_ **[Please. - SH]** _

At this, John replied with a simple ‘On my way there’ before pocketing his mobile and getting into the car. He was… still rather cross at his friend for what had happened between them, for Sherlock losing control of himself and forcing his… Well. Needless to say, he had every right to still be mad, and not a little bit hurt. But… the way the other man was acting now - so wary, so careful of John’s feelings… It belied something in him that meant he was _actually_ sorry about it.

**“Fuckin’ hell,”** muttered John, turned the engine over. The next time they saw each other in person, it was going to be _excruciatingly_ awkward.


	22. A Bad Man

_April 19th, 2012. 9:50 a.m. Newbury_

 

Thankfully, the logistics of cutting through the yellow tape and what-not for John to get Abigail’s aunt and uncle’s address took just about as long as it did for him to drive to Newbury anyway. Greg had texted him to tell him he wanted to be there, but couldn’t, so it’d just be him, alone, with a traumatized girl and her surviving family… Plus a contingent of Wiltshire county officers about the perimeter, of course.

When he got there, the aunt and uncle - Nancy and Thomas Campbell - greeted the doctor at their doorstep, with Abby nowhere to be seen. Hopefully tucked away in the cozy tudor-style house somewhere.

Neither of the couple wore particularly friendly faces as he made his way up the walk. Their features were drawn, worn - their eyes flicking to the patrolling officers every few seconds. Nancy had a passing resemblance to Lucille, but it looked like the former was the elder of the two, with the deep creases astride her eyes and strands of grey streaking her curls. 

**“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell,”** said John, raising his hand to offer them a shake. He pressed his lips into a tentative, empathetic smile, hoping to put some of their nerves to rest with as warm a reception as he could muster. Had it always been this difficult to talk to victims on these types of cases, or was it because he was so… distracted? 

**“Hello, doctor,”** replied Nancy, stepping from under the shadows of the eave and quickly shaking John’s hand. Her husband remained utterly mute, but nodded solemnly as he made eye contact with the other man.   **“Is there… something we could help you with?”**

**“Ah, yes, actually. May I come in?”**

Husband and wife gave each-other side-glanced, and Thomas frowned, but Nancy dropped the shake and smoothed out her blouse nervously. **“I suppose. If it’ll help solve all this.”**

John dipped his chin and stepped forward as the couple ushered him inside. No introductions were necessary, apparently. **“That’s the hope, yeah.”**

The front room wasn’t as neat as the Hampshires, but it certainly was equally as homey, with nick-knacks and pictures covering the walls. It was definitely clear that this couple was not accustomed to having a child around, as many very delicate antique trinkets were well within reach on low-hewn tables and shelves. Against the far wall, a flat-screen television blared cartoons, and on the brown leather couch facing it, John spotted the back of a head of curly chestnut hair.

**“Abby, dear, Dr. Watson is here to talk to us…”** said Thomas softly, coming ‘round the couch to sit next to the girl and regard her from beneath his brows with a cautious eye. Abigail, however, hardly moved at all.

**“Okay…”** she murmured, shifting to wrap a fluffy, blue blanket about herself. Nancy stood back and watched, clasping her hands together at her front, as John circled ‘round the opposite side of the couch and glanced at a recliner positioned catty-corner to it. He seated himself with a clear of his throat, not asking permission as it seemed the family would rather do as little talking as possible.

John leaned forward, propping his elbows up on his knees, and knitted his fingers together before him as he looked upon the girl. She was… pale. Withdrawn. She didn’t meet his gaze, instead choosing to focus on his feet - textbook avoidance of conflict.

**“Abigail…”** he began softly, trailing off when she raised her eyes to his. There was a hollowness to her eyes that reminded the veteran more of his fellow soldiers than of a young child. John swallowed past a knot in his throat and forged ahead. **“Do you know anything about your mother’s father, Leigh Boucher?”**

The girl shook her head slowly, averting her sights to the floor once more. **“Mum said he’s... a bad man. She never talked about him around me,”** she replied, voice vacant of intonation. John noted that she spoke of her parent in the present tense. Did that mean she hadn’t fully accepted what had happened, or was it just… habit?

Hell, _he’s_ not a therapist.

Feeling a bit at a loss, the doctor changed gears and looked at Nancy, still standing vigilant by the entryway. **“That’s okay - thank you anyway, Abigail. Maybe I should have a chat with your aunt and uncle alone then…?”**

He braced his hands on the armrests and started to push himself out of the chair, but Thomas held up his hand. **“It’s alright. I’ll take her to her room. Nancy’s the one that knows about him anyway.”**

The other man stood and Abby reached out from her swaddled blankets to grasp his hand. She was lead out of the living room and down a hall as Nancy finally made her way around the couch and lowered herself into it with a weary sigh. Her shoulders slouched and head shook from side to side; the picture of defeat. John didn’t know what, exactly, he should say in that moment, so he simply remained silent until the woman spoke.

**“Dad - Leigh - isn’t part of our family anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. He was handed leadership of this… Wiccan or… druidic religious group, and it basically swallowed up his life.”**

She paused, then, her face scrunching up as if she’d tasted something vile in the back of her throat. When she continued, it was with a particular venom that caught John a bit off gaurd.

**_“Archdruid_ ** **Boucher… Everything was about** **_‘the Mother_ ** **’ this and** **_‘the Earth’_ ** **that. He spent all his time at the old farmhouse they renovated for their um… spells n’ that. Rituals. Real nutter stuff.”**

She rubbed her upper arm vigorously, reminding John uncomfortably of Dylan, but unlike the boy, she stopped and smiled sadly at him. **“Last I heard, I thought Lucy and William had joined, actually, so Thomas and I cut off all contact with the lot of them. We hadn’t heard a word about any of them in almost twenty years until… Until now.”**

Both of John’s brows rose and he scarcely allowed himself to breathe or blink. Nancy slowly inhaled as if to speak further, but said nothing. **“Until now…?”** the doctor prompted gently.

Nancy bobbed her head once and rose from the couch before quickly puttering over to a cabinet near the hall. She opened the first drawer and pulled out a folded piece of paper, then came back to John and handed it to him.

He glanced at her, brows furrowing, but took the letter, unfolded it, and read as she looked on, wringing her hands fretfully.

 

_Dearest daughter,_

 

_I know the choices I’ve made, both for our family and for my Druids of the Mother, have not been to your liking in the past. All these years, I’ve been heart-broken at having lost the respect of my two only children, but I’ve carried on as best as one in my position must do._

_Now that tragedy has struck our family, I believe it is time we put aside our differences and come together. Please meet me with Thomas and Abigail in London at sundown on the 21st of April at the address below. We’ll talk more soon._

 

_Love,_

_Your adoring father._

 

At the bottom of the computer-printed letter was a handwritten address in Wapping, and old warehouse district along the Thames. It had become a much posher area after a literary house and some luxury flats had been built in the late 80’s. Could the address be at one of those flats? Or one of the public houses? Maybe one of the very few remaining actual warehouses by the docks themselves?

**“When was this sent?”** John asked, glancing up from under his brows.

Nancy nibbled her lip and averted her eyes to the side. Her voice was barely audible when she managed to speak, devoid of the biting tone from moments prior. **“The day after… it happened.”**

‘It’ very clearly was the murders, but the press hadn’t been notified and the Campbell’s whereabouts hadn’t even been found by the police. Thus, this letter was posted before anyone, much less an estranged father, should have known about it.

It was obvious he and Sherlock needed to follow-up on this letter, but as his face lifted in earnest from the paper to look upon the singular remaining Boucher sister, he realized he couldn’t very well have _her_ or her family in harm’s way. They couldn’t be used as bait, no matter _what_ Sherlock said… And John just _knew_ he’d want that. Just have them, waltzing into a building likely filled with fanatic cultists. Lovely image, that.

Putting on a wide, hopefully-comforting smile, he refolded the paper and motioned to her with it. **“Well, the police and I will take a look into this, Mrs. Campbell. You just take good care of Abigail and it’ll all be--”**

Quite suddenly, John was cut off by a buzzing in his pocket. **“Ah!”** he gasped, then flashed a sheepish grin as he reached for his mobile. **“S-Sorry - surprised me. Anyway, it’ll all be alright. I’m sure we’ll have this all sorted promptly.”**

**“Thank you, Doctor Watson,”** said Nancy, trying her best to return the warm expression, but faltering both in her face and the strength of her voice. **“Is… Will that be all you need?”**

John nodded and abruptly stood from his chair - perhaps a little too quickly, as Nancy gave him a bit of an owl-eyed look as she, too, got up.

**“Yes, thanks. Sorry to have disturbed you with this. You’ve helped a lot, though,”** insisted John, already heading towards the door. The woman opened it for him and he stepped outside before turning to offer his hand again. **“It was a pleasure to meet you, miss.”**

She embraced his palm and squeezed it loosely before letting go. **“Likewise. Someone will tell me if there’s any headway in the case, yes?”**

**“Of course,”** he replied quickly, stretching his lips into a wide a smile as he could muster. Might be creepy-looking, at this point. Ah, well. Nancy dipped her chin and waved him off, regardless, before closing and bolting the door shut. As John turned on heel towards his car, he folded the note into his back pocket (without an evidence bag or anything!) and checked his phone.

**_[I’ve something to tell you. Come back to the flat. -SH]_ **

_Oh, bugger._ **_Now_ ** _what?_


	23. Hard Time Resisting

_April 19th, 11 AM, London, England (221B Baker Street)_

 

He’d received the text and stared at it for several minutes, steadily becoming more and more anxious over what could possibly be so important it couldn’t be said over a mobile conversation. No doubt Sherlock had made some sort of head-way in finding out more about this druidic cult despite his previous troubles, but that wouldn’t have warranted demanding John come back to their flat, would it? They could’ve just met at Avebury or something.

For some ridiculous reason, he… didn’t feel like he should ask. He just did as he was told, dutiful little **_pet_ ** that he was.

It felt like ages, making the trip back, but at length, he keyed open the front door to 221B and put his foot on the first step of the stairs, though he paused when the haunting melody of a violin being played trickled down into the foyer.

_He’s having trouble sorting things_ , John realized, remembering all the times that instrument had aided the boffin in breaching mental barriers and piecing together complex, tenuous connections… along with when Irene had supposedly died. _God, something’s really off, isn’t it?_

The doctor climbed the stairs and entered the flat in earnest, eyes immediately settling on the slender form of Sherlock Holmes, silhouetted against the light pouring in from the front window. After he put his things down on the table, John carefully approached his friend and placed his hand on its corner.

**“Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would,”** murmured Sherlock, taking the bow away from the strings but not yet moving otherwise. He stood as if welded to the spot, face turned out to look out at the street below. The silence left behind by the absence of the violin felt claustrophobic by comparison.

**“Of course, Sherlock,”** John replied quietly. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t about the case at all, was it? In a gentle tone, he proceeded with caution. **“What’s wrong?”**

A weird sound puffed from Sherlock’s lips, and John didn’t realize until the detective slowly turned about to lock his eyes with him that it was… a dry, mirthless chuckle.

**“That’s just it, John. I’m not... entirely certain. I’m… I find myself at a loss.”** His mouth quirked up on one side, but the _sadness_ in his eyes struck the doctor to his core. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt thick and knotted.

**“What ah… whad’you mean?”** he managed, voice sounding strange and tight even to his own ears. Why was his stomach tying itself in tangles like he were giving a speech to a full auditorium?

**“I’ve hurt you a great deal by taking advantage of your feelings for me,”** explained the detective, lowering the violin and placing it and the bow on the music stand. Those words alone had all remaining lung function within John cease to exist. He couldn’t speak, much less move, but the deepening creases in his brow belied some of the turmoil this simple action had unleashed within.

Sherlock continued, turning on-heel and taking a single, tentative, if fluid step towards the other. **“I’m sorry, John, for what I did. What I’ve** **_been_ ** **doing to you. It was monstrous of me. I have... difficulty empathizing sometimes, but I know that’s… that is** **_hardly_ ** **an excuse.”**

John’s head shook once, side to side, of its own accord. **“Sherlock…?”** Where was he going with this? Why was he still smirking like that despite admitting how terrible he felt for torturing his best and self-professed “only” friend?

**“All those nights when I should have had my mind on the case, or been sleeping, I thought about** **_you._ ** **Everything we’ve done. Everything we’ve shared. How I grew attached to you in a manner I didn’t realise I was capable of. My whole life, I assumed sentiment and sex to be matters of lesser people - the losing side - but...”**

It felt as if the doctor’s chest were about to explode, with how heavily his heart beat against it. How it was swelling with untempered emotion. The rims of his eyes were stinging, but again, he was dumbstruck. All he could do was wait for the man that had claimed his soul to speak his piece. He could hope against hope that all this was leading to something, but he didn’t dare.

**_“John…”_ ** whispered Sherlock, endeavouring to keep hold of the shorter man’s gaze as long as humanly possible, if only to convey some unspoken, bothersome thought. The sound of John’s own name spoken in such a manner made his chest ache even further.

**“I’m… I think I am… in** **_l-love_ ** **with you,”** he said, voice catching on the ‘L’ word as his upper lip twitched as if in disgust with himself. **“I don’t know** **_how,_ ** **but--”**

His speech was cut off by a choked sound forcing its way from John’s throat.The doctor’s brows lifted together, crinkling the ruddy flesh between them, as his he covered his mouth with the back of his hand to prevent another outburst.

It seemed, however, that this sound had been quite enough to derail whatever train of thought Sherlock’d been voicing. In two more quick strides, he closed the distance between them, and slipped his arms about the other to welcome John into an embrace that initially had his form stiffening, balking, before it melted into it.

**“J-Jesus, Sherlock,”** sputtered John, twisting the arm that had been crushed against him down to instead wrap firmly about Sherlock’s torso. The detective was… trembling. Shaking like a leaf in a storm, and bowing his spine to press his face into the war veteran’s neck.

**“This is s-so ridiculous,”** grumbled the boffin, but John could feel warm, wet tears pooling in on his skin and shirt collar. **“You’ve** **_broken_ ** **me, John Watson.”**

** **

As John brought his other hand to splay up between his mate’s shoulderblades, he sniffed and allowed the moisture he’d been holding back to tumble freely from his eyes. **“I’m** **_\-- hah --_ ** **I’m not sorry in the least,”** he smiled, exuberantly trying (and failing) to catch his breath as highly unmasculine sobs wracked his sturdy frame.

**“So you still… you still want me?”** came the hesitant, muffled question from lips being grazed across his nape. **“After all I’ve done?”**

John felt a bit of a shudder of his own roll through him, but this was not just the bodily reaction to overwhelming happiness, to be certain. He knew Sherlock was likely unaware of the effect that simple brush of his mouth was having on him, and honestly, he felt a bit bad for even feeling it. What a _terrible_ moment ruiner, to get a hardon-on in the midst of this. He thought of the queen in her knickers to keep things cool down south.

**“Of** **_COURSE_ ** **I do, you idiot,”** he snickered. **“It’ll take a bit more than you shoving your** **_cock_ ** **in my mouth for me to piss off for good.”**

_God,_ now that the indignation of that moment had passed and he’d had time to cool down, remembering it actually seemed to make things worse on his attempt to not become unduly aroused. _Shit._ He hoped Sherlock hadn’t noticed, but with his incredible powers of observation, it wasn’t likely. In fact, he could feel the detective stilling somewhat against him, and those lips moving subtly downward to settle over his pulse point. _Double-shit._

**“Sher-- ...Sherlock, I should erm… I should…go.”**

**“It’s alright, John,”** murmured Sherlock, his voice rumbling in that perfect, baritone purr that always got John’s blood pumping. And now, it was definitely making things worse. The shorter man started to pull away, not wanting Sherlock to force himself into sexual activity he might not be ready for simply because John was a bit horny.

**“What if… what if I did that for you…? Could you… teach me?”**

John stopped struggling and his own eyes blown wide with shock.

_Aw, fuck **me.** What’d he just say?! He wants me to teach him how to suck a _ **_cock_ ** _? Hadn’t he been put off my just the taste of my_ **_mouth_ ** _? What the fuck does he expect a cock to taste like?_

Before he could stop himself, a tiny bubble of semi-hysterical giggles fell from his lips. **“You gonna let me cum in your mouth, then?”**

Sherlock recoiled slightly, raising his head up and tucking his chin to his neck to regard John with, first, a wrinkled nose of disgust, before he smoothed it out and mashed his brows together in bewilderment. The other man felt somewhat guilty, realizing the poor virgin had taken him seriously.

**“I… would rather you didn’t,”** muttered Sherlock, averting his gaze and slowly unlatching his fingers from about John’s torso.

**“Aw,** **_Sherlock_ ** **,”** cooed the doctor, smiling gently. He didn’t try to cling to his friend to keep him from getting free, though he definitely wanted to. **“I was** **_joking._ ** **I know** **_you_ ** **had a hard time resisting it, but I’ve had a lot more experience. I can control myself pretty well.”**

_“_ **_Hard time resisting,”_ ** echoed Sherlock, chuckling bitterly. **“I bloody well** **_raped_ ** **your** **_mouth_ ** **, John.” T** he boffin swallowed thickly and pulled away completely, his face grim with apparent self-loathing.

Oh… so **_that_** was what had been bothering him, talking about ‘all he’d done.’ John hadn’t forgiven him for all that yet, and they hadn’t spoke about it either, so that left Sherlock to stew on his behavior - on how he’d lost control.

**“Sherlock…”** murmured John, stepping forward to close the meagre distance put between them by the retreating detective. He placed his hand on the other’s shoulder for lack of knowing what else to do. Even after embracing in joyous exhilaration, giving the other grown man a hug to comfort him didn’t seem right just yet.

**“It was… really bad, yeh. I wasn’t ready for it, but… I dunno. Asking you if you’re sorry and having you promise you won’t do it again sounds…”**

**“Like something an abused domestic partner might say,”** finished Sherlock, shoulders tensing beneath John’s grip.

The older man sighed and gave him an affectionate, hopefully encouraging squeeze. This was weirdly complex. Well, on the bright side, at least his erection had died down **. “But you** **_are_ ** **sorry, and you** **_won’t_ ** **do it again, right?”**

Sherlock finally lifted his eyes to meet John’s, the mismatched crystalline orbs misted over with barely contained emotion. God, how had John ever thought him a machine? After all the crass remarks over the recently deceased, or with their bereaved relatives, here he was holding back tears.

**“Of course, John,”** he insisted softly. **“I never meant to hurt you.”**

**“I know,”** John replied, testing the waters with a smile that tugged one side of his lips up into his cheek. **“You’re forgiven, Sherlock. And, who knows, maybe I’ll ask for it next time, eh?”**

A tentative smirk twitched onto the boffin’s lip. **“You say that, and as much as you say I know everything about you, you’re more and more a mystery every day to me, John Watson.”**

That level of revelation gave the doctor an unusual mix of pride and hurt - the former for obvious reasons, but the latter… well, he liked not being the boring, confused one, but knowing Sherlock was having difficulties reading him the closer they got was sort of unsettling.

**“What… what d’you mean?”** he pressed, repeating himself. Not a man of varied words, this one. Not when he’d been caught off his guard like this.

For a moment, Sherlock hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his gaze, before he averted it to the floor. **“I didn’t deduce you were in love with me, for one. How am I to know whether you’re legitimately joking when you talk about… those types of things?”**

John blinked several times in rapid-fire succession. **“O-** **_oh_ ** **. Sherlock, I… well I** **_think_ ** **I was joking. I’m not sure. I’ve never done any of this, remember?”**

Almost as if he were impatient, the detective forced out a harsh sigh and returned his eyes to his friend with the skin between his brows crinkled slightly. **“If you don’t even know, how am I supposed to?”**

At this, John smiled - earnest and wide, dimpling his cheek. **“That’s the fun of it, mate,”** he smoothed, regathering his confidence if only to comfort the less experienced man. The hand on Sherlock’s shoulder slipped to his forearm as he took another small step and tipped his face up. **“We get to keep each other guessing.”**

Though he was still visibly teeter-tottering, Sherlock mirrored the expression as best as he could manage and slowly slipped a hand up to cup John’s cheek. **“Let the games begin, then,”** he murmured, lids lowering half-way. Cliched, beautiful bastard.

The breath in John’s chest caught, but he was not about to let this chance get away from him from sheer nerves. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and lifted himself up a smidge, tilting his head and closing his eyes as he did so. Thankfully, as much as Sherlock had disliked their _first_ kiss, he didn’t pull away from this one.

No, very much the opposite. As if he’d discovered a liking for the acquired taste of another person’s mouth, the detective met John’s lips with his own and molded them together. A soft sigh whispered from his nose, fanning over John’s face and surrounding him in humid warmth. As John tried to slip his tongue past the breech, the fingers on his face moved to thread through his hair.

He heard a sound growl out of him - a moan, soft and airy - before he could catch it, but despite fearing he might push Sherlock past his comfort zone, his body was speaking of its own accord. Without even meaning to, he settled his free hand on the other man’s hip and tugged him close until he felt his renewed erection rubbing shamelessly into his friend’s thigh.

This, apparently, was a bit too much for Sherlock. He pulled his head up and a bitten-back gasp was dragged in between kiss-moistened lips. **“J-John, I… You’re erm...”**

As soon as their mouths had separated with a moist suckling sound, John’s eyes fluttered open and he whisked his tongue over his bottom lip. **“Sorry,”** he huffed, tucking his chin to his chest again with a bashful smile. He started angling his pelvis away, but Sherlock wasn’t having any of that: an iron-fingered hand suddenly latched onto his arse, trapping him.

**“A-ah! Sherlock, wh-wha...?”** sputtered the doctor, his own grip tightening on the other man’s arm and waist if only to keep his balance.

**“I want…”** began Sherlock, his voice alarmingly husky and ragged - so very different from the fluid purr from moments before. **“I want to** **_learn_ ** **. Please?”**

**“I…”** began John, about to protest until he second-guessed himself. There wasn’t anything holding them back anymore, now that Sherlock had admitted he harbored some manner of actual feeling for him. It was just… difficult. John was still new to all this _gay_ business and having to teach another man, much less a virgin, how to pleasure him was obviously going to have its pitfalls.

And yet, they both wanted it, obviously. **“Alright… But not here,”** he murmured, sandy lashes dipping to his cheeks as he glanced off to the side. **“Let’s um… Just go to your bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”**


	24. Wrong Thing!

_April 19th, 11:15 AM, London, England (221B Baker Street)_

 

Without further conversation, Sherlock went up to his room and John nipped into his own to fetch a box of tissues he kept hidden in his nightstand. He was a hot-blooded British man, after all - he’s got needs, whether he had a partner or not, yeah? Regardless, he had to think ahead - if Sherlock did indeed manage to make him… Well. They’d need _something_ to clean up the mess.

Feeling almost as awkward as he had when his friend had first walked in on him _wanking,_ the doctor kept his eyes on the floor as he entered Sherlock’s room and gently closed the door behind him, just in case Mrs. Hudson popped into the flat unexpectedly.God, wouldn’t _that_ be awful - her hearing them mucking about?

Regardless of his thoughts about their landlady’s opinion on their relationship, John made it about half-way to the bed when Sherlock’s voice had him faltering in his step. It had been so quiet up until then, the sudden noise, soft as it was, was jarring.

**“You’re not aroused anymore…”** noted Sherlock. As John looked up, eyes wide at the brazen truth, he spotted a soft frown on Sherlock’s lips, as if he were disappointed, and briefly followed the younger man’s line of sight to his crotch, which was, as noted, lacking an erection.

As if he’d been personally offended by that statement, John reacted defensively. **“Yeah? Well, neither are you,”** he sniped back, jutting his jaw in Sherlock’s general direction to indicate the definitive lack of tenting to the sheets between the detective’s legs.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, as if he were concealing laughter, but his face remained unchanged as he patted the bed next to him. **“I’m certain that will be remedied rather quickly.”**

John inhaled quickly and let out a noisy breath through flared nostrils, but crossed the room anyway and sat on the bed. For a moment, he faltered, undecided on where he should put the tissues, and whether he should undress as Sherlock had, or…

**_“John…”_ ** murmured Sherlock from behind him, warm breath fanning over the shell of the doctor’s ear. A shudder rolled down John’s spine as his body tightened up in surprise. How’d he get so close without making a sound? **_“I’m_ ** **the one that’s supposed to be nervous…”**

The damned genius had read John’s posture and hesitation with ease, giving away that the more experienced man was not, in fact, confident about his role in this situation. _Twat._

Sherlock  gently prized the tissue box from his hand and curled forward to set it at the end of the bed, drawing John’s eyes to the lean, sinuous length of his friend’s back. **“Sorry,”** chuckled John, kicking off his shoes and swinging both legs up into the mattress.

**“I’ve just never… done it like this before. Whenever a woman and I… i-it just sort of** **_happens.”_ **

It was true, really. It was one thing to be snogging a person and have them reach for your groin in passionate excitement, and quite another to take it as a step-by-step teaching process.

**“I wouldn’t know,”** replied Sherlock matter-of-factly, leaning back into the pillows. **“So… how does it happen, then?”**

Right. He could do this. Just breathe, John, old boy. **“Well,”** he began, slowly reaching for Sherlock’s nearest hand. **“Usually we… start out with kissing and... “**

Sherlock’s eyes ticked up from where John was laying his hand on the doctor’s thigh, to his face, one brow lifting expectantly. **“...And?”**

John swallowed, though the dryness of his throat caused him to grimace. Sherlock squeezed his thigh and he found his stomach fluttering like a school boy. As soon as John let go of his hand and lifted it to Sherlock’s cheek, the detective’s palm moved slightly higher, testingly brushing his fingertips over the nether region he aimed to please.

_Immediate_ tingling tightness in John’s bollocks heralded the imminent stiffening of his prick, rewarding Sherlock with the tiniest of twitches. The younger man took in a small breath, and locked eyes with his best friend…

The best friend that he was going to give a handy to. **“Christ,”** whispered John, before pulling Sherlock’s face to his and locking him in a kiss. With his other hand, he unbuttoned and undid his zip. By the time he lifted his arse off the bed to tug his trousers down, he was sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock, in turn, was aiding him, feverishly yanking the fabric down to John’s knees.

Without breaking their heated lip-lock, John roughly and slightly awkwardly twisted his torso away to fling the damn things at the wall, and suddenly--

**“AH, FFF--!”**

Sherlock had snatched at his cock, still trapped in his boxers, but missed in his excitement and grabbed his balls instead, squeezing them. _Hard._ The ripple of gut-churning pain had John ripping away from Sherlock's lips, doubling over, and clutching his hands over the others, though the latter succeeded in pulling away.

**“Oh God -- John, I’m sorry, are you alright?”** panted Sherlock. Though John had his eyes sealed shut as he gulped past the urge to be sick, he could hear how worried Sherlock was - as if he’d permanently castrated him.

**“Shuh-Sherlock,”** John wheezed, unclenching his fingers and leaning back in a show that he wasn’t in as much pain as he was. **“ ”’M fine - you just ah… grabbed the wrong thing…”**

**“The wrong thing? I grabbed your-- oh. OH! Oh,** **_God,_ ** **I’m so sorry…”**

  
A weak smile forced its way onto John’s features and he inhaled deeply to force out the remnants of the discomfort. **“It’s really alright,”** he said, slipping his fingers around Sherlock’s hand again as he scrunched his nose up at him. **“Yeh -- I like being touched there, actually. Just** **_\- heh -_ ** **not that** **_hard.”_ **

Sherlock demurred with a muted grin, lashes dipping as his cheeks flushed a deeper hue. **“Noted.”**

Jesus, how could a grown man be so damned cute?


End file.
